


Maybe (I Fell In Love)

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Friends With Benefits, Het and Slash, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1384360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing he feels for Harry is what every best friend feels. Not that every friendship involves sex without strings whenever Zayn’s back home or Harry's come down to London to visit.</p><p>It's just who they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> NC17 | famous!zayn x uni student!harry au, friends with benefits, jealousy, angst, pining, het mentioned, infidelity, sex, rimming, recreational drugs and alcohol use | Zayn/Harry, Zayn/Perrie, Harry/Louis
> 
>  
> 
> Two and a half months worth of writing a fic that was just a slip of an idea from listening to **Ed Sheeran's** **loose change** album far too much. (I'd really LOVE to learn to write short things. Really.) Contains lyrics from a bunch of Ed's songs and the Arctic Monkey's "Do I Wanna Know" from the amazing AM album. 
> 
> Dedicated to my **sweet potato emoji in crime** , with thanks to **Su** for the beta and my **Moo** for getting excited as only she can xx

_kiss on the cheek for her one night man_

When he slips out of Harry's bed the next morning, it's fine. It's utterly okay that his stomach swoops, he can blame that on coming down from the night before. From the excess of cheap red wine they'd drunk from a bloody box in the park like they were in sixth form again. From the truly shite weed they smoked once they got back to Harry's flat, his housemate out for the weekend.

It's got nothing to do with the way Harry looks lying in his his tiny twin bed. His ridiculously large feet hanging over the edge of the mattress, one sock on, one sock off. Baby-blue sheet tangled around his waist leaving warm, honey skin in a near endless display where his broad shoulders taper down to a trim waist. He's lying on his front, soft snores muffled by the pillow his head's buried in, but Zayn can still hear them. 

Zayn blinks, shakes his head to clear it, and regrets it immediately when bright lights and _pain_ bloom behind his eyelids. He needs a smoke and perhaps a coffee, but he doesn't know his way around this new place of Harry's. Doesn't want to make too much noise knowing how late - or early, really - they got in. With Harry halfway through his first year of Uni, he probably needs as much sleep as he can get. 

Zayn spots his jacket lying where one of them threw it when all that was important was access to more skin and getting to the bed. He pulls on a pair of Harry's joggers that are on top of a wash basket. They're folded, so Zayn assumes they're clean; Harry's generally good about that sort of thing. He scratches at his stomach, stepping over what is either his or Harry's jeans before picking up his jacket and thankfully finding a few cigs left in the pack and his trusty lighter. He'd be well mardy if he'd lost that, a gift from Harry for luck the night before he'd tried out for X Factor.

He'd not let it out of his sight since.

Even when he'd gone out the third week in because bloody Louis had wanted him to sing some bubblegum pop rubbish that just wasn't Zayn's sound at all.

Still, though, it was getting better now. A bit of airplay on Radio1, a single in the top fifty and the latest debuting in tenth place. His concerts had gone from shitty little clubs to slightly bigger yet still shitty clubs, and he'd done an interview for Australia's MTV last week because apparently he's got a bit of a following there. His agent was in talks with Chuggy at Frontier Touring to bring Zayn and a few other up-and-comings in the UK R&B fold Down Under for the summer. 

It was all pretty exciting really, and Zayn had barely felt his feet touch ground in the past nine months when it had really started taking off. It doesn’t feel like he’s that person who has actual papz following him about in airports right now. Not here in Harry's tiny bedroom, the bay window looking out over a patch of mostly green that qualifies as a park because of the two sets of swings in the middle of it. It's not the nicest of flats, what with the wallpaper peeling off the walls and revealing at least two different decades underneath, and a rainbow of mould in one corner of the ceiling which after a good rain resembles Benedict Cumberpatch's profile. Sort of. It's a room, though, and no one really knows where he is when he's here with Harry. His mum might, but his "adoring public" . . . not yet, and he hopes they never do.

Zayn taps out a cig on his thigh and the window squeaks terribly when he budges it open with some effort, just an inch because Harry shifts on the bed and Zayn freezes. It's enough. Harry will go on about Zayn's health later, but he _needs_ a smoke right now so Harry will just have to deal with it. He curls up with his back against the wall, knees tucked in close to his chest, and nearly drops the lighter as he flicks the flame into life and Harry sleepily calls out a rough, "Those things will—"

"Kill me, I know," Zayn finishes with a grin, looking down at where his feet poke out from the bottom of Harry's ratty joggers, the ends so long they curl under his heels. He can still remember when he could use Harry's head as an armrest; now it's nearly the opposite, but Harry's always had lovely long legs. They felt particularly good wrapped around Zayn's waist last night, and just the thought has the semi he’s been sporting since he woke up, curled around Harry's side, twitching with interest.

He hears Harry shuffling around on the bed, feet banging none too softly on the wooden floor, the pop and crackle of Harry straightening out his back in a long stretch. Zayn lights his cigarette anyway; for all Harry's moaning, he knows Zayn needs it. Needs something to do with his hands lest the shaking start. The only thing that cures the tic he's had for what feels like his whole life is a smoke or a microphone his fingers can curl around.

"Coffee?" Harry asks as Zayn takes in is first proper lungful of acrid smoke. The pub only had Bensons the night before when he'd run out of the sweeter clove hand-rolled he's started to favour lately. It's a bit harsh but he manages not to choke, holds it in as an extra tightness in his chest instead. Zayn nods, knowing that Harry won't be looking anyway because he's getting dressed. He's covering up his lovely long legs and little bum with jeans Zayn _knows_ are his because Harry's have a gigantic hole in the right knee and Zayn’s were bought new the previous week.

Harry's always been a bit of a clotheshorse; most of Zayn’s wardrobe when he was younger found its way to the Styles’ house. Then again, in his bag that's still packed from a quick trip to LA, at the very bottom is a hoodie of Harry's that Zayn might have "borrowed" when he was fifteen. It didn't smell like Harry anymore or the campfire smoke it had when he’d first nicked it, but Zayn sometimes liked to imagine that it did. Especially when he was all alone in some hotel room in a city he couldn't remember the name of and he needed a piece of normality to anchor him down.

"Any chance of—" Zayn begins, and Harry's calling back, "Dozen eggs and a loaf of bread with our name on it in the fridge waiting."

Zayn grins a little wider. He watches a flock of blackbirds pass by, the sky mostly clear of clouds and a blue that makes his eyes sting a little. 

"New bottle of HP in the cupboard, too, when you’re quite finished fucking up your lungs," Harry snarks, and Zayn turns toward Harry's voice, his brown curls tied tight in a little topknot on his head from where it appears to be floating at the edge of the door. 

Zayn flips Harry the finger and blows several smoke rings in Harry's direction. He's too far away for them to reach, but Harry makes a show of coughing before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Zayn's stomach does that swoopy thing again and it's fine. It's just the way they are. It's him and Harry and how they've always been since they grew up two doors down from each other. Silly little seven- and eight-year-olds bonding over comic books and a love of superheroes and needing the company of another male whilst growing up in houses filled with women. The thing he feels for Harry is what every best friend feels. Not that every friendship involves sex without strings whenever Zayn’s back home or Harry's come down to London to visit.

It's just who they are.

And it's fine. It's perfect and good and with Zayn's sexuality not being a "thing", though his agent knows that he likes who he likes and isn't one way or the other, it's not important. It's just Harry. Harry and Zayn and the way they can be laughing one minute and falling into bed the next. Even if Zayn did want more, it wouldn't exactly work with Harry being here in his first year of Uni at Leeds. Zayn's busier and busier every day; studio time bought that needs to be used, photos of his face to be taken, interviews to repeat the same answers to be done. Neither of them have the time even if Harry did want what Zayn won't allow himself to even _admit_ thinking about.

"You could set the table, you know," Harry calls from the kitchen, and Zayn sighs and takes one last pull on his smoke before rolling off the bench, stopping to stub his cigarette out on the outer windowsill. 

He grabs his shirt from where it landed on Harry's desk chair and tugs it on, throwing his jacket on over the top before making his way to the kitchen. He winces a bit; there's an ache in his arms from how he had them planted on the bed on either side of Harry’s chest last night. He'd held back Harry's thighs as he fucked him deep and slow, Harry's eyes rolling back into his head with every thrust. Zayn tucks his hand under the waistband of his joggers, adjusting himself before heading out of the bedroom. Their breakfast will burn if Harry catches sight of Zayn's hard-on. It's happened before.

Harry's at the stove, eggs sizzling in the pan and the radio on low, something far too upbeat and poppy for this hour of the morning playing in the background. Zayn nabs the kettle from the bench, fills it up, and switches it on. He's staring at the row of cupboards, wondering which might contain the mugs, when Harry's voice interrupts his musing.

"Coffee is in the cupboard to your left, mugs in the one beside."

Zayn smiles a little to himself as he reaches up and grasps at the handle Harry mentioned. It's always been this way between them, finishing each other's thoughts and sentences like they were one mind, not two. After scooping out his own coffee he preps Harry's tea just the way he likes it, two sugars with milk and leaving the bag in. 

"Don't forget to—"

"Leave the bag in, I know." Zayn bites at his lip, anything to stop the stupid fond grin he knows is already tugging at lips. There's more than a tiny string pulling at that place in his gut now; it's shifted up and seems to be tangling around his heart. 

He blinks and looks back down at the mugs. He fills his own with a dash of milk and then heads to the little table in the corner, sitting on the chair that looks like it'll hold his weight. Harry's flat is an eclectic mix of run-down and possibly broken furniture, the kitchen chairs mostly wood and held together with gaffa tape and twine. It's always a gamble when choosing a seat. The white timber and ratty brown vinyl chair he picks only creaks when he tentatively sits down, makes no other sound as he puts his full weight on it. He checks his phone where it's lying on the table: a few messages and a missed call from his mum, but he can get to that later. He spins it around, listening to the sizzle and pop of the eggs in the pan and Harry singing softly under his breath to a tune Zayn doesn't recognise. 

Harry can sing - better than Zayn, he's always thought. His tone is gravelly and deep, like the way he talks but mostly faster. They've done so many nights at karaoke, laughing while overacting the lines to "Islands in the Stream" or "I've Got You Babe", stupid tunes that gain them a laugh and a round of applause before they fall back into their chairs, sharing the occasional sloppy kiss. Life was so much easier when they were both in college, both studying hard but playing even harder when it came to breaks and a _need_ to slow it all down. Zayn misses those days sometimes; how simple it all seemed back then. How much easier it was to just be _them_. He frowns into the creamy brown as he lifts the coffee to his lips. He can't be letting thoughts of Harry make him feel like this, like there's something more than the friendship they've had for years. He can't let the stupid reactions his body has around Harry make his mind wander, because it's not fair. The life he has, the career he's building . . . it can't contain a Harry yet. 

He isn't sure it ever will.

Harry's just . . . he's this amazing part of Zayn's life before all of the record deals and contracts to sign, and yeah, he's still a part of it now, but for how long? Harry's got a life of his own to build with Uni and then working in a career that Zayn brushes shoulders with on the odd occasion. Those faceless men that are mostly just suits, who Zayn forgets the name of an instant after being introduced, and he can't. He can't have Harry becoming one of those. He can't have Harry giving it all away to be anything less, either.

He really should go.

He's stayed too long, anyhow.

Something icy claws its way into his chest, freezing the lines of an emotion he can't name right down to where they still pool in his gut. It's a decision made, really. He picks up his phone, feels the weight of his wallet in his pocket when he shoves his hand inside. Zayn stands, takes a mouthful of coffee that's too hot, and moves to the sink, leaving plenty of room between him and Harry as he goes. He tips the rest of his coffee down the drain, taking a moment to regret that he couldn't swill the lot faster, then puts the cup back down and faces Harry. Zayn tugs at the strings on the stupid apron Harry's wearing and focuses on a burn mark on the bench that looks a lot like the bottom of the pan Harry's flipping tomatos in now.

"Haz, I'm sorry, I forgot I have a thing this morning and I've—"

Harry doesn't skip a beat, just shifts the tomato and onion around to fit in a bit of buttered bread and Zayn's stomach growls in a way he hopes Harry can't pick up. It smelled good from the table, but this close Zayn remembers he hasn't eaten anything since lunch at his Mum's the day before. 

"You've got to go, right. More for me and Niall, then, when he gets in later," Harry says, and there's this moment after he says "Right" when Zayn swears he hears a sigh or this little bit of sadness, but it's gone before he can decide if it was there at all. 

Harry turns, buzzes his lips to Zayn's cheek, and goes back to shifting the bread around so it won't stick, eyes never once meeting Zayn's. "You still coming up for Danny's birthday?" 

Zayn's staring at this curl at the back of Harry's head, this lone, out of place little thing that's come unstuck instead of being tied into that silly knot with a pink elastic. "Yeah, told them I had to have that weekend home. Have to do three extra interviews and some magazine thing to get out of it, though." 

Harry laughs and some of the ice in Zayn's chest starts to thaw. He should go. He should leave, now . . .

. . . but he can see the outline of a bruise in the shape of his thumb just under the neckline of Harry's shirt. Zayn knows he made that, pulled too hard when he was kissing Harry outside the pub as they rutted against each other with bricks biting into Zayn's back even through his leather jacket. This mark that's already turning purple and Zayn's mind is a blur of _mineminemine_ but Harry's not.

He can't be.

Zayn takes a deep breath and steps back. Keeps stepping back until he can close his eyes and turn, throwing Harry a casual sounding goodbye as he steps out the door. Out of Harry's life for another moment.

It's only when he's on the street below, calling a cab, that he realises he's still in Harry's joggers.

{ .. }

 

"Bye, Mrs Malik!" Harry calls back over his shoulder, already dragging Zayn out the door. Zayn tightens his grip on Harry's hand as he fights to keep them upright. Harry's hopelessly unstable on his own feet at the best of times and his boots skid over the rocks as he pulls them forward. Harry's dark curls are bouncing in Zayn's eyeline as they laugh, nearly tripping over their own feet on the gravel.

"She hates when you call her that," Zayn says into the lambswool cuff that curves around Harry's neck. Zayn loves this denim jacket on Harry; it's one Harry's had since they were ten and surprisingly, it still fits. Just. Zayn's slid his arm down around Harry's waist now, Harry's own coming to rest over Zayn's shoulder, his grip tight over Zayn's regular leather ensemble, pulling him close to Harry's side.

Harry's breath is warm against Zayn's cheek when he speaks, citrusy from the tangerine he snagged from the kitchen bench before. "Didn't hear her complaining last night."

Zayn shoves at Harry's side with a "Fuck off!" Harry pushes him back and then they're squaring off, kicking up the small rocks in the drive, throwing jabs left and right with grins on their faces.

And this is good. This is just what he needed after the two weeks in Sweden recording and then another two back home and filming the bloody clip to his single. It was fun, it was exciting laying down tracks for the second album even though he'd only just finished a mini-tour for the first. He workedbwith Ben Winston again for this new clip, which was great, but after the third night of waiting for the sun to rise at the exact moment for one particular lyric, Zayn wasn't exactly having fun anymore. 

"Oi, you two! You getting in the car or what?" Niall's voice rings out from the street and Harry gives Zayn's hair one last ruffle from where he has Zayn in a headlock and jogs over to the car. 

He spins around just as Zayn's grumbling about not touching his bloody hair, and Harry's smile stops the words short in his mouth. Harry’s dimples are deep and he looks so happy - happy to be there with Zayn, or happy in general, Zayn doesn't know - but it lights that spark inside Zayn that he tries to clamp down on when he's with Harry. That little warm glow that he can't let flare into something bright because they're friends and Zayn needs friends right now. 

Needs proper ones, especially after having to pay off one of those so-called "mates" they had in high school after he tried to sell his story to _The Sun_ of being Zayn's first time. Luckily the bloke was a bit of an idiot and tried Zayn's management team first. It wasn't even true - Harry had been the one to take Zayn’s virginity and Zayn his in return - but Zayn was seventeen and the bloke had been fit and into it at some party and, well, things happen. Zayn had been close to hyperventilating when he'd got off the phone with management. He barely held it together on the drive over to the office, Paul talking about his kids this pleasant buzz in the background. He couldn't stop his leg from tapping under the table when he got inside, where three suits he didn't know and a few he did explained it all to him. Zayn had been freaked out, apologies and excuses getting lost on his tongue as it tangled in his mouth, but they'd just shook their heads. "All part of the job, sir," and an undisclosed amount and possibly a bit of strong-arming from Zayn's security team, and that was that.

Then there was the fact that Zayn _had_ security at all. They'd only recently informed him about the threats on his life, once they had started to include his family. It's why he always has someone at his side. Always has a ride even when he doesn't think he needs one. It sent shivers down his spine when they told him, all straight-faced with Paul and Preston looking on, fierce at his side.

Not that Harry knows it was the reason for Zayn’s unexpected trip home. Harry's just happy Zayn’s around, that they can go out clubbing like they haven't done in forever. Or at all, really. Zayn hadn't really asked about getting out of the city before he left. The look on his face, or the way his hands shook or something, must have been enough for Sarah to give him the weekend off. He'd started smoking a lot more heavily, too, something his mum had picked up on in the four hours since he'd got in the door. He'd do anything to quell the twitch in his fingertips, stop the way he kept biting at his bottom lip until it was a bloody, chapped mess.

Harry's tilting his head to the side now, brows furrowing slightly. Concern is etched across his forehead and Zayn can hear the questions that are playing in Harry's mind. The "You've been quiet all afternoon, why won't you tell me what's wrong?" and "Why won't you let me help?" that Zayn can't give him answers to. He blinks hard instead, shaking himself before jogging to catch up. Harry straightens, now standing beside Niall's second hand orange and blue shitbox of a thing that sputters black smoke no matter how often he replaces the oil. 

"You alright?" Harry asks as Zayn climbs in through the passenger side and steps over the front seat into the back, which is littered with take-away wrappers. Niall's a bloody slob.

Zayn waits while Harry pushes the seat back into position and gets his seatbelt on before he answers, squeezing a hand on Harry's shoulder as he does. "Yeah, mate. Never better." 

"Okay then." Harry nods, fingertips wrapping over Zayn's. Zayn settles back, leaving his hand where it is until he has to straighten his arm when he gets jerked forward.

"Sorry 'bout that, reverse is always a bit tricky," Niall mumbles, and there's a grinding of gears before they're actually headed in the right direction. 

Zayn and Harry's laughter fills the car, and when Niall joins in after a few choice curses Zayn thinks this might be just what he needed.

{ .. }

The club is loud and Zayn's not drunk. He's had a few and he's been nursing this vodka tonic for an hour now, content to sit back in the booth and watch. 

Of course, it helps that he's got quite the view.

Harry's dancing.

It's not that Harry's great at it. His wild arm movements in the air, long legs, and near to no bum twisting about while he thrusts in every direction are nothing like the precise moves of the dancers Zayn's met out on tour, or on set when he films a piece for X Factor in some country or other. Harry's pretty terrible, actually, but there's something about how _bad_ he is that makes it utterly endearing. He has not one care out there on the dance floor. This quiet smile graces his face, or he looks ever so passionate belting out words to a favourite song, and Zayn can't look away. Can't let himself tear his eyes from what Harry's doing for one second in case he misses something important. 

"Zayn, my man." Niall shoulder-bumps Zayn as he slides into the booth beside him, three pint glasses in hand, and Zayn knows there's not a chance that one of those is for him. 

"Enjoying yourself?" Niall asks, lifting a glass to his lips and draining half of it in one go before downing the rest of it. 

Zayn nods, still focused on Harry but pretending to let his gaze wander in case Niall is looking. He's probably not.

"Can't believe his mum got him ballet lessons when youse were both younger. Didn't do much good, did it?" Niall chuckles, pointing his next pint in Harry's direction. Obviously paying attention, then.

Zayn snorts because he remembers hating the three afternoons a week Harry had ballet with Gemma. It took away from his Harry time, and even though Harry truly was shit at it, he liked it and continued going even through Zayn's whining, which by the end of the first month turned to pleading that they just stay home. They could work on Harry's balance playing pirates or ninjas in the vacant block at the end of the road. They could do anything as long as it was together. Mrs Styles had dragged Zayn along one afternoon, and as boring as Zayn thought it was, he'd not minded when he got to see Harry dance. Harry had loved it, though, and stayed for the entire year until his dance teacher pulled him aside at the end and told him he just didn't have the "it" factor. 

Probably why he wouldn't try out with Zayn for any other "Factor" in the future.

Zayn hadn't cared too much. He had Harry back and the year of ballet training was pretty much forgotten until Zayn saw him on the dance floor and remembered Harry in those tight black tights and how much his jeans did the same thing for his bum and, well, Zayn had always liked watching Harry move. 

"He was shit at it, don't let him tell you otherwise," Zayn says, lifting his near warm drink to his lips.

Niall laughs at his side. "Well, he's right about one thing: said you always liked to watch."

Zayn sputters at that, feels his cheeks heat, and even though the slight coughing fit he's having shouldn't be able to be heard where Harry is, Harry still turns and raises a concerned brow, mouthing "Are you all right?" Zayn nods and holds up his thumb and Harry smiles, then turns to hold some bird’s hands and spins her in circles.

Niall rubs a hand over Zayn's back as Zayn blinks back the stinging in the corners of his eyes, taking a slow sip of his drink to ease the tickle at the back of his throat. 

"He's a bloody disaster. What's not to like about watching?" Zayn gets out after clearing his throat a few times. There are green and blue strobes playing off Harry's curls as he raises his face to the roof, like the fake rain the lights are making is actually real. He's such an idiot, but it makes Zayn smile none the less.

Niall hums in answer and they're quiet, Zayn sipping slowly at his tonic and Niall finishing off another pint glass. It's as Zayn’s considering getting up for a fag that Niall speaks again.

"Is that how long you've been in love with him then? Since he paraded around in a tutu?" Niall spills all of this like he's asking Zayn about the weather, or how the new album is coming along, or if he'd mind ever so replacing the bog roll when he's finished next time he's over. Zayn sputters again and his eyes go wide as he turns in his seat to look at Niall.

Niall stares back at him, looking for all the world as if he's not laid the one question Zayn's been avoiding himself for the past six years on Zayn's shoulders. 

"He never wore a tutu," Zayn says, voice strained as he drops his eyes to stare at the coaster in front of him instead of Niall's blue gaze boring into him as it had been before. The ring his drink left on the cardboard surface has started to bleed out into the writing, making the number some girl dropped there earlier all but indistinct. 

"Can't imagine that he did, no. Still, you ever going to tell him?" Niall continues. Zayn must have had more to drink than he’d thought. Words spill from his lips like the condensation running down his glass as he places it on the coaster.

"I can't. He's the one thing I want more than anything. More than the record deals and singing to people who sing back my words, more than the flat in London and the trips to the other side of the world that still freak me out everytime I get on a plane. Harry. He's—" Zayn pauses, licks at his lips, feeling deflated of all he's been holding in for so long. "He's . . . he's everything." He shrugs and stares even more resignedly at his drink, imagining he can actually see the few remaining ice cubes melting.

"I want to be with him all the time. I want more than the odd night with a fry up before I head out the door. I turn to tell him things that have made me laugh when he's not there, I walk into my flat and imagine him at the stove and he's not, and it breaks the hold he has on me little by little and then he calls or I come home and he's here and - I _need_ him. I need him more than he could ever know, and because I do and I'm selfish I can't let it be anything more. He's got a life here and I've got this. . . whatever it is for as long as I do."

Niall lets out this long breath, this half a curse as he presses closer to Zayn's shoulder, his knee knocking with Zayn's under the table. "He'd give it all up for you, you know. He's never said anything, but I know he would."

Zayn shrugs, because there's been enough honesty this night and he needs to get out, clear his head from thoughts Niall is helping grow and shape that he can _not_ let his mind dwell on. "He could, but I won't let him. I can't." 

He slips away from the table then, before Niall can utter another word, and he's kicking himself for saying all he did. Niall won't say anything to Harry - as much as he's Harry's friend, he's grown to be Zayn's, too, and Niall won’t hurt Harry any more than Zayn won’t. Or hopes he won't. He catches his security's eye - it's Preston tonight; sometimes it's Andy or Paul or some big bloke called Max - and nods toward the back. His hands are shaking, he can feel them jittery at his side as he twists his way through the crowd, knowing that Preston will follow at a discreet distance. 

When he gets to the door that leads to the alley outside he lets Preston through first, waits for the all-clear, and braces himself against the cool of the night compared to the hot press of bodies inside. He leans up against a wall, hoping that he's not resting against piss or anything, and after a few tries he gets his cigarettes out from his jean pocket. His jacket is in the coat-check, and even though he knows there's a possibility of paps back here he trusts Preston will keep anyone at bay. Preston knows Zayn needs tonight, probably spotted the tremor in his fingertips before Zayn did. 

He gets through three cigarettes before Harry finds him. Before Harry drags him into the bar. Another hour later and it's back to Harry and Niall's and fucking all quiet and slow, giggling about what Niall might hear. It's waking up and putting on last night’s clothes before a breakfast of eggy bread and Preston texting him and he's out the door.

The sad, almost pitying look he catches on Niall's face as Harry kisses his cheek at the door stays with him the entire drive back to London.

It's behind his eyes every time he closes them for weeks after.

{ .. }

 

It's Zayn's turn to entertain Harry this weekend. 

He's playing some little gallery opening for a friend of his stylist. It's not something he probably _should_ be doing at this beginning point of his career, but he likes Caroline and the artist friend is talented. Zayn bought two pieces earlier in the day when Caroline took him down for a look around where the stage would be later. 

He sings and Harry's _right there_ in front, smiling at him all huge white teeth and dimples that look like Michelangelo carved them there himself. Harry looks incredibly hot in his skinny black jeans - not the ones he nicked from Zayn months ago but his old favoured ones with the ridiculous rip in the knee. He'd been wearing these layers of plaid in red and blue when they'd come in, but he was down to a thin white tee now. Maybe it was the lighting or the shirt was just that worn, but Zayn could see the birds inked on Harry's chest, could even make out that dumb butterfly below them. It just made him think of earlier that afternoon when Harry'd come all over the smooth inked lines, how it felt under Zayn's tongue as he licked Harry clean.

Harry was dancing like he normally would, all lanky body parts jerking everywhere and managing not to hit a soul. Even if he did he'd get out of any trouble with a wink and a smile, that Styles charm obliterating any hard feelings before they had a chance to erupt into something else. He's ridiculous, and when Zayn finishes the singing portion of the evening and steps behind the decks to dj it's not long before he loses Harry in the crowd, only to suddenly find him standing beside him. 

"Here," Harry says, holding out a cup that Zayn, when he takes a sip after faux clinking their glasses together, finds is hard cider. It's refreshing after drinking water most of the day and night for his voice. Harry wraps a hand around Zayn's neck, pulls him in close so the tips of their noses and foreheads line up. Harry's green eyes disappear into one and he's so beautiful. More stunning than any of the art on the walls, better to look at than any of the sculptures, too. He's just so _much_ and Zayn's everything calls out to hold, to touch, to make Harry his own.

But he can't.

Not here, anyway.

Harry's grinning, his grip tight on the fine hairs at the nape of Zayn's neck. "You were fucking awesome, Zayn! Smashed it!" 

Zayn laughs because Harry's words are slurred; he's obviously taken advantage of the free bar on site. "What are you even drinking, Haz?" 

Harry sways back and, with a wink, shakes his glass in front of Zayn. Zayn is paying more attention this time and spots a swirl of apple skin in the mix. His eyes widen because he was sure Caroline said it was just a wine and champagne event. "How on earth did you get that?"

Harry winks again, but it's more of a blink with added movement of one eye as he taps at his nose with a finger. "The fruit of the apple calls me and I can not help but surrender,"

"You make no sense." Zayn laughs again and Harry’s hand winds around his waist as he sips his drink, smiling at Zayn as he does. 

"Apple martinis make no sense!" he shouts in Zayn's face, licking his cheek before bouncing away back into the crowd, leaving Zayn a bit baffled. He's hoping if any camera's caught that move it can be explained away as two mates having had a bit too much. 

The night goes on and Harry dances like no one is watching until the studio lights come on and Max, this time, is tapping at his watch, ready to leave. 

Zayn doesn't really notice, though.

His eyes are focused on one thing.

Eventually Max pours them both into the car and makes sure they get into Zayn's posh building in one piece. They're giggling as they head upstairs and Harry's taking the mick out of one of Zayn's songs, singing it like he's a bloody chipmunk and at twice the speed, at that. Zayn keeps trying to hush him with his hand over Harry's mouth, but Harry just licks at Zayn's palm until he breaks away to rub it down his side. They're shushing each other all the way down the hall to Zayn's door, cheering none too quietly when they finally get in and close it after them. 

Zayn flicks on the lights as Harry sings softly behind him, the sparse furniture of his flat coming into view as he moves from room to room. He notices that Harry isn't following only when he gets to the kitchen, and he sets the kettle on the stove before getting the gas on. 

"Tea, Haz?" he calls out, and he hears a murmured _yeah_ that sounds like it’s coming from the living room. He smiles because Harry's always been a sucker for the view when he comes over and Zayn only put the little lamp on when he walked through, knowing how good the city looks all lit up, even at three in the morning. 

Zayn rolls his eyes when he finds himself singing the Chipmunks’ Christmas song under his breath as he fixes their drinks - tea for him, too, at this time of the night or morning. He doesn't stop as he wanders back into the living room and finds Harry standing with one hand deep in the pocket of Zayn's jacket that he stole the moment they got out of the car. He looks small, sort of, all curled in on himself and slightly unsure when he raises his eyes to Zayn’s. He's chewing at the skin of his thumb and his lips quirk up into a smile for a second before it disappears and his curls fall forward over his face. 

"Vas happenin'?" Zayn asks, using that stupid phrase he'd tried to make catch on when he and Harry were twelve. It fails to get a laugh. Harry doesn't even smile. The silence goes on between them with Harry only shrugging before taking the mug from Zayn's hand when he holds it out.

They both take silent sips and it's so quiet Zayn can hear Harry breathing, the shift of his shoulders a tiny movement, barely noticeable because he's hunched over so much. 

"Harry," Zayn starts, because it's not like this between them. They don't _do_ awkward silences. Not when they have such short amounts of time together, not when it's all smiles and laughs turning into kisses and groans and getting off.

Harry licks at his lips. His eyes flick down to the sofa and Zayn looks too, but sees nothing that should have Harry acting this out of sorts.

"You want me to - I mean, I didn't expect - never do, really - but, I mean, it's fine." He looks past Zayn and goes to step in that direction when Zayn stops him with a hand to his wrist. Zayn takes from Harry’s grip the mug, which he’s sort of shaking, and sets it down with his own on the coffee table.

Harry won't meet his eyes but seems lost in this staring competition with the floor as he waffles on some more. "You have a toothbrush I could borrow? I didn't pack one or anything - forgot, which is weird for me—"

"Harry," Zayn interrupts, because he gets it now. Takes in the folded-up duvet and sheets, the extra pillows from when Zayn's sister was down two nights previously and Zayn had taken the sofa, giving his sister his own bed. He hadn't gotten around to putting them away, too busy with meetings and interviews, songs to practice. He sees Harry being unsure, out of sorts in this much of Zayn's world no matter how much he's had to drink and no, Zayn can't have Harry feeling like that at all. It's the reason he shelters Harry from so much of what he does. So much of his heart.

"It's fine, really, Zayn. We don't - I'm drunk anyway, fall right asleep I will," Harry continues, and he's still not looking at Zayn and it's stupid.

"Safa spent the night after we recorded this thing for some documentary or something they're doing on me a few days back."

Harry grins quickly but the corners of his lips soon fall down again, didn't show his dimples anyway, and Zayn knows that look. Knows all of Harry's looks, really. Harry should remember that. Zayn's been building a catalogue since he was eight years old.

"It's fine if you want - I mean, I'm sure your sofa's well comfortable, it probably cost as much as all the furniture back at mine." Harry laughs but it falls flat and Zayn can't handle Harry like this.

He grips both of Harrys arms, tugs at his wrist until he's got Harry's hands clasped in his. "I'd be more comfortable with you in my bed, with me." 

Harry does smile then, this little thing that lifts further as Zayn steps in close and fits a knee between Harry's legs. He drops his voice lower, softer, as he runs his lips over Harry's jaw. "Be even more comfortable if you weren't in my jacket." 

He lets go of Harry's hands and they fall to Harry’s sides. Guides his fingertips over Harry's shirt and slides his own hands up until he's got them under the cool leather of the stolen jacket Harry's wearing. Pushes at the material until it bunches at Harry's back, a few good pulls at the cuffs loosening the smaller fit from Harry's broad shoulders. 

His lips find their way to the corner of Harry's as the jacket falls noisily to the floor. "Or in any clothes, really," 

Harry surges up then and layers are falling left and right as they head toward the bedroom, Harry leading the way as he always does. He's got one finger crooked in the belt loop of Zayn's jeans, dragging him in close the moment they step across the threshold into Zayn's room. Zayn goes willingly, because if he can do anything without having to let thought in, it's what he does with Harry in the darkness, in the quiet of their breaths bouncing between them. It's so easy to pretend he can have this, have Harry like this and the possibility of more after, when it's just them. 

Harry's sucking on Zayn's tongue now, his fingers a warm press under the waistband of Zayn's pants and pushing Zayn's jeans lower. Zayn's got both of his hands on Harry's chest, and even in the low light from the hall he can see his palms are covering the birds. He sweeps his hands down, catches Harry's nipples between his fingers and squeezes, pulls back and swallows Harry's moan with his mouth. Harry rocks forward and Zayn can feel how hard Harry is getting, how much Harry wants this now, as much as he always does. 

The weirdness about the sofa is now completely gone from both of their minds as Zayn pushes Harry to the bed. He has to laugh a little as Harry goes flailing backwards, bouncing a bit on the mattress, feet kicking at the duvet where it bunched up after Zayn rolled out earlier that morning. Zayn chuckles as he struggles to get his own jeans off, losing his footing at the last second. Harry's not doing all that much better when Zayn starts crawling up on the bed. Harry's got this pout on his lips as he tugs at the zip of his jeans, getting nowhere fast.

"Let me," Zayn says with a grin, and Harry tugs at the zip once more before throwing his hands behind his head and thrusting his hips up in Zayn's direction. 

"Big baby," Zayn mutters, easing the zip down slowly, and it goes with not too much effort on Zayn's part. He's about to rub it into Harry's face a bit but Harry's sat up again. It's just enough to get his hand around Zayn's neck and pull him in so they meet relatively halfway as Harry takes most of Zayn's breath away with how hard Harry's snogging him. He's sucking on Zayn's tongue and his fingers are tugging at Zayn's hair while his hips rise up to meet Zayn's, and everything feels so right. 

They fit like this, as Zayn lowers himself down, fills the space between Harry's thighs, pressing his chest against Harry's own. Harry's eyes are closed but Zayn can't stop watching. Harry gets Zayn's face between his hands, thumbs rubbing softly over his cheekbones as he guides their kiss, and just that, without anything else, has Zayn's heart racing. He rolls his hips anyway, hands pressed deep into the mattress on either side of Harry's neck, feeling how hard Harry already is against the soft curve of Zayn's belly. He swallows down Harry's groan, noting the line that deepens between Harry's brows and the catch in his breath when Zayn gets a hand between them and wraps his fingers around Harry's cock. He's wet already - always messy like this - as Zayn runs his palm over the head, stroking down with his thumb pressed into the underside and dragging it purposefully over the thick vein there. 

Harry's bucking up into his touch and Zayn doesn't know what he wants to do first. They could come like this - have done before - or he could stop kissing Harry and suck him off. They could pause for a moment, get the lube and shit from the drawers, and Zayn could fuck Harry slow and sweet or hard and fast or maybe roll him over and lick him out first . . . the possibilities are endless when Harry gets like this. With the noises he's making and how he hasn't let _go_ of Zayn yet. Needy, almost.

Harry's so different from how unsure he was before. Before Zayn reminded him that he wanted Harry to be here. Always wants Harry, even if he can't bring himself to say the words.

"What do you want?" he whispers, breath ragged as his lips brush soft against Harry's. 

Harry's eyes squeeze tight, hips rolling up so he can fuck into Zayn's fist. "I don't know." 

Zayn nips at Harry's bottom lip, ruby red and bruised by the intensity of their kissing so far. "That's not an answer, Harry." He tightens his grip on Harry's dick, gets the edge of his thumb rubbing against the slit, watches Harry swallow hard as he gasps for air.

_"Fuck!_ Want you," Harry gasps, head thrown back against Zayn's pillows. Zayn takes advantage of how much of Harry's neck is on show to suck a bruise over where he can feel the fast beat of Harry's pulse beneath his lips. Harry moans again, gets his ankle hooked over Zayn's calf, heel pressing into the muscle there. One of Harry's hands slides over Zayn's back, gathering the slick sweat from Zayn's skin; the other has fallen limply to the bed, hand fisted in the sheets below. The light from the hall falls over Harry's face, casting it into deep relief, and it hits Zayn again how beautiful Harry really is. This gorgeous boy who could be with anyone, _anyone_ , but he chooses to come home with Zayn or let Zayn into his bed time and time again.

Zayn sits back on his knees and rubs his palms over Harry's thighs, feels the muscles trembling under his touch. "Roll over," Zayn says softly, focusing on the fine trail of hair below Harry’s belly button, on the rise and fall of that moth on his stomach. Anywhere but his eyes. He just can't look at Harry right now. Can't see how perfect Harry is, this Harry that he can't keep as his.

Harry shifts, pulling himself up the bed as he turns over, nearly taking Zayn's head off with his foot. Harry apologises and Zayn chuckles, grabs at Harry's ankle and helps to get him settled, forearms on the mattress, face smooshed on one side into the pillows. Harry pulls his knees in tight and Zayn runs his hand up Harry's leg, over the sweet curve of his arse, pushing down on the small of Harry's back. Zayn licks his lips, breathes in deep as he takes in the sight of the long line of Harry's back, the smoothness of his skin. The only part of Harry's torso that remains mostly free from the swirls of ink that line his front. Only the side of the empty birdcage is really on show, bits of ink at the top of his left shoulder.

He's still undecided about what to do. He bends down anyway, rubs his palm over Harry's bum, leans in and nips at the round of it. It's the way Harry shivers, the way he pushes up into Zayn's touch that settles it. Zayn grips both of Harry's cheeks, spreads them wide to run his thumbs down the middle, just short of the tight pink furl of skin that Zayn's got on show from holding Harry back. Harry breathes out Zayn's name, all short and harsh like it’s mostly stuck in his throat. Zayn can't hide his grin, dick twitching against his stomach. Precome blurts from the head and rubs sticky against his skin, sending sparks down his spine as Zayn dips in low. There's a heat burning low in his gut from what's to come, how much he loves doing this to Harry, how much he loves bringing Harry undone.

They haven't done this in a long time. Harry always gets a bit shy about it but loves it all the same. It's probably because of how much Harry's had to drink that he's not whining about it now, not trying to stop Zayn but instead offering himself up, pushing his backside into Zayn’s face. Zayn takes the hint, licks a long stripe from Harry's sac right up to where his fingers are holding Harry's cheeks apart. Harry moans then, this long, broken sound that cuts off short when Zayn blows a stream of air where his mouth just was.

"Shit, Zayn, don't - just - _please_ ," Harry begs, curling one arm under his head, mouth settling close to the sail of the ship on his bicep. 

Zayn can hear the need in Harry's voice, can feel how tense Harry is under his fingertips, so he doesn't make Harry wait any longer. Zayn dives right in, licking right around Harry's hole, tongue massaging the soft, tight skin as he listens to Harry's moans above him. He presses his fingertips into the meat of Harry's cheeks, knowing full well he'll leave marks behind but not caring in the least. It's the way Harry shifts against him when Zayn points his tongue, pushes in until the furl gives, lets him in little by little as Harry chokes on these _sounds_ that have Zayn aching to get a hand on himself. Not yet, though, not until he's taken Harry completely apart.

Spit is dripping down his chin as he opens his mouth and _sucks_ , feels how the ring of muscle flutters against his lips. Harry's nearly sobbing above him as Zayn slides his thumb down Harry's crack and slips through the wet that Zayn's mouth has made until he's pressing in, running his thumb just around the inside of Harry's rim. He's warm and wet and Zayn's thumb slides in easily. Harry pushes back until he's nearly fucking himself on Zayn's thumb, whines as Zayn exchanges it at once for two fingers. Harry's back arches like a cat. Zayn pauses for a moment, wondering if he's pushed Harry too far, but when he looks up at Harry's face he's licking at his lips, bitten and swollen with abuse, and whining Zayn’s name. Harry blinks and manages to shoot Zayn this look and Zayn groans himself. His hips stutter forward and he thinks about getting a pillow under him so he has something to rub off against. He doesn't, though. His mind quickly settles back on Harry when he pushes back hard, yelping a little as Zayn’s fingers slide in deeper. Zayn lowers his head and his tongue meets soft, wet skin around his fingers as he fucks them into Harry with renewed purpose. 

Harry moves, dropping down on one side, and without looking Zayn can tell he's got a hand on himself. Knows from the extra vibrations at his fingertips that Harry's pulling himself off and not going at it particularly slowly either. It's so hot, knowing that Zayn's got him to a point where he has no self control, where the only thing Harry's focused on is falling apart. Zayn tucks a third finger in, stretches Harry even more as he does, nips at the meat of Harry's arse as Harry makes more and more noise. The sound muffles after Zayn twists his fingers in a particular way - years of prepping Harry or watching him do it himself means Zayn knows exactly where to touch. Zayn looks up, drags his mouth away from Harry's skin to see Harry biting at his arm, teeth embedded lightly but hard enough that the skin whitens around his grip.

Zayn won't be the only one leaving marks in Harry's skin tonight.

"You close, then?" Zayn murmurs, lips tracing the line of Harry's spine as Harry's hand works away underneath him. Harry makes this muffled _yes_ around his arm and Zayn wants to kiss him. Wants Harry's lips on his. Wants as much as Harry will give him. Zayn twists his fingers up, crooks them in a way he knows will get Harry off fast and it does. Harry's soon grunting - near sobbing - as his arm becomes this blur of movement under him. Zayn feels it the moment Harry starts to come. He can barely move his fingers, licks the salt from Harry's skin as Harry collapses to the bed, his legs finally giving out.

It takes a minute for Zayn's head to clear, then he's pulling his fingers out and wrapping his hand around himself as he sits back on his haunches. The view of a debauched and wrecked Harry is even more of a turn-on. Zayn's tongue is pressed against the back of his teeth as he curls in on himself, gives in to finally letting himself feel good. Harry's not having Zayn do all the work, though. With shaky limbs he turns himself over and reaches up, patting at Zayn's thigh and chest, then wrapping around Zayn's neck as Zayn leans in. He knows without needing words what Harry wants. Harry's on his back now, pulled mostly up off the bed to meet Zayn halfway in a dirty, wet kiss that is more tongue than anything joining them. Harry's other hand bats Zayn's away, his grip tighter than Zayn would have expected as he pulls at Zayn’s cock. It's almost too much and Zayn is close anyway from fucking Harry with his tongue and fingers - now Harry's got the hand he was wanking himself off with wrapped around Zayn's prick and it's too much. Too much.

He comes with a shout, three long spurts coating his and probably Harry's skin, body curling in over himself. He slumps forward onto Harry's chest, knocking them both back onto the bed, and the last of his orgasm dribbles over his fingertips. Harry manages a breathy laugh but Zayn's barely breathing, a combination of their kissing and coming so damn hard proving to be nearly too much for his body to handle. Zayn fits himself in close to Harry's neck, tangles their legs together as Harry pats at his back, kisses whatever skin he can reach.

"Fucking love you," Harry breathes, voice rough and already sleepy.

Zayn smiles into Harry's neck, squeezes Harry's shoulder in return. The words are spilling from his mouth before he can check them. Words that he shouldn't but he can't help but return.

"Love you, too, Haz. So much."

 

{ .. }

He knows he shouldn't have said it. Knows that they were words he should _never_ have uttered. 

Yet, when he wakes and everything is the same as it was the day before, Zayn starts to think that his little post-coital confession didn't change anything at all. When he opens his eyes, it's to find Harry's closed in front of him. They shifted in the night so Zayn is now on his back and Harry curled in at his side, his arm wrapped around Zayn's middle and a little bit of drool at the corner of his lips in a tiny mess on Zayn's chest where he's using Zayn as a pillow. It's sweet and Zayn finds himself smiling as Harry blinks slowly, yawning as his eyes focus in, and then his grin is sort of shy, one dimple deep in his cheek. Zayn purses his lips, tries to tamp down on the chuckle that's at the back of his throat when Harry realises he's been drooling on Zayn and wipes at his jaw and then, with wide eyes, at Zayn's skin. 

Harry lifts one brow and it's _sorry_ without saying the word and Zayn does laugh then, eyes crinkled up tight as Harry thumps a fist on his chest. Zayn turns on his side, curling Harry in with the arm that was under Harry's head, until they're chest to chest and he can hear Harry's laughter, too. It feels so right, Harry lying here in the morning, laughing about stupid things like drool and having so much of Harry's skin bare against his own. His chest feels tight, filled with this lightness he never knew could exist under his ribs. Harry's stopped hitting him and instead is tapping the pads of his fingers over where Zayn's grandfather's name is inked deep into his skin.

Zayn turns his head, presses his lips to Harry's forehead, and breathes in deep. There's a little bit of his coconut pomade left there, a little of the smoke from when he shared a spliff with Zayn before they left for the gig, and it's nice. It's Harry. Zayn sighs - more hums, really - a happy sound that has Harry nuzzling his face into Zayn's neck, pressing tender kisses against his throat. He tightens his grip on Harry, presses his fingertips in deep, and a smile creeps over his face that nearly hurts because it all feels so good. So right.

"I love your bed," Harry says, teeth scraping over Zayn's collarbone so lightly it almost tickles. 

Zayn shifts his leg so Harry can fit his knee in better and push up so his body is more over Zayn's than anywhere on the aforementioned bed at all. The tippy-tap of his fingertips has moved down Zayn's chest now, beating a tiny path over one nipple as tongue meets the other. 

Zayn was wrong. Just lying in bed with Harry was nice, but having Harry in his bed and all over his body is something better.

Harry slides down lower, his stomach rubbing up against where Zayn's prick is filling fast. The slightest attention from Harry always has this effect. Zayn clenches his teeth but a soft moan spills from his lips anyway. Harry wriggles around and ends up between Zayns thighs with a hand on either side of Zayn's hips. He rests his chin just below Zayn's belly button, not too far away from where Harry clumsily wrote "Don't Think I Won't" when they were sixteen and Danny had procured a tattoo gun from a friend to keep it there forever. 

Harry's eyes are bright, bright green in the early morning light, flecks of gold hidden within their depths as he grins up at Zayn. It has Zayn's breath catching in his throat, how beautiful Harry is, how filled with love Zayn is for him. Maybe today - maybe today he can forget about why he can't say it. Why he can bandy about "I love you's" when they're getting a pint for each other or ringing off on the phone or in text. Maybe today he can pretend that he never went on the X Factor and he and Harry are just two idiots with nothing to do on a Saturday morning. Maybe for today, he can love Harry right.

"Why's that?" Zayn asks when he finds his voice to speak, remembering Harry's earlier devotion to the bed they're lying in.

Harry’s dimples deepen. "It's good on the knees, perfect for sucking you off," he quips, and he ducks down lower and licks Zayn's prick from root to tip before taking him in. Zayn has to close his eyes. Can't watch how stretched out Harry's lips are becoming with each pass up and down. He grows harder in the slick warmth of Harry's mouth. Wants to keep being right here in the moment for as long as he can.

Nothing else matters when his eyes are closed, just him and Harry. That's all.

{ .. }

Zayn comes ridiculously quickly and returns the favour to Harry with his hand, wiping the mess off on sheets that will have to be washed anyway. They shower together and Harry lets Zayn style his curls into foam-filled spikes and a ridiculously large mohawk. He lathers Harry up with his bodywash, unable to deny that it's purely so Harry will smell like him even after he goes home. They kiss under the water until Zayn thinks he's drunk at least half his body weight from the times his mouth has been open.   
They towel off, each of them giggling when he catches the other staring. Zayn turns his back on Harry eventually and gets dressed in the minimum amount of time it takes to wrangle on his skinnies, a shirt, and an old knit that could possibly be Harry's. When Zayn turns from fixing his hair and finds Harry shrugging on one of Zayn's old hoodies he says nothing. He _does_ corral Harry backwards against the bedroom door, pushing him up against it while aligning their bodies, and takes Harry's face between his hands and snogs him senseless. Harry's cheeks are flushed with colour when Zayn finally pulls back and kisses Harry slower, deeper. Kisses Harry with all the words he can't let himself say.

They break apart and Harry chuckles, shaking his head as they make their way to the kitchen. Zayn falls behind to readjust himself in his pants. It's irrational how good Harry looks in Zayn's clothes. Makes Zayn want to undress him all over again. He shakes himself out of it and follows after Harry.

"You don't have to do that," Zayn says when he comes around the corner to find Harry grabbing some mugs from the cupboard. The kettle is already on.

Harry laughs, and it’s warm and fills what Zayn always feels is quite a cold place in his flat. Then again, there's usually only him banging around here on his own until the odd night Harry or one of Zayn's sisters stops by. Zayn can't help himself but steps up close behind Harry's back and hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder as he reaches around to push the mugs out of the way.

"Let's go out, yeah? You always cook. There's a caf nearby that does eggy bread like your mum used to, maybe even better." Zayn can't stop smiling, presses his lips to Harry's jaw as Harry snorts. 

"Zayn, it's well past breakfast. We've slept so long it's not even brunch anymore." 

Zayn steps back, feels lighter than he has in days - weeks, even - and grabs at Harry’s hand, twining their fingers together. "Lunch, then. I've been craving a good chips and cheese and I know just the place. Not far from here - we can even walk."

Harry shakes his head. "Chips and cheese. Haven't had that since - shit - I think after you got in to X Factor, when you came home and you were all excited and we—"

"Got drunk off that horrible bottle of port your stepdad had hidden in the garden shed." Zayn smiles and then grimaces at the memory. They'd been so sick that next morning, vomiting in the garden at the back of Harry's parents’ place, sneaking around the side and down to the caf opposite their school that did the best chip butties they'd ever tasted.

"All right then, lead on, good sir," Harry says, and Zayn tugs him out of the flat, stopping only to grab his wallet, keys, and phone. 

Zayn doesn't bother calling his security for the short trip. He figures they could do with the day off, and it's not as if he's going to be mobbed at some greasy caf that's nearly hidden in the back alley, way off the main road. It's virtually empty when they walk in and Harry gets a laugh out of Zayn attempting to order with his sunglasses still on when they're inside. He slaps Harry on the shoulder and Harry gets him back. The slap-turned-tickle-fight nearly gets them thrown out when the owner catches on as he brings out their order. They walk out with mostly serious faces that dissolve into laughter the moment they get around the corner. Harry's arm around Zayn's waist is a heavy weight that grounds him to the here and now. To how they are when they're together.

The day is gorgeous for a change. Bright blue skies with a few white puffs of clouds, but otherwise it's almost Disney-esque, with the warmth of the sun on his face matching the heat from Harry at his side. They get their chips and cheese takeaway and head a little further along to what is definitely more of a park than the square patch of green near Harry's flat back in Leeds. They find a mostly secluded spot and lay the grease-stained paper between them, licking the salt from their fingers when they're done. It's so quiet, feels so private where they are that Zayn can't say no when Harry puts his head in Zayn's lap. He doesn't push Harry off, only leans back against the tree himself and runs his fingers through Harry's curls. Harry's breathing slows and Zayn's eyes flutter nearly closed, shifting between awake and asleep even whilst sitting up.

It's nice, is what it is. This quiet moment when they're together without words or friends or _anything_ between them. Just Zayn and Harry and no one and nothing else. 

"Love this," Harry says, and Zayn blinks a bit. He’d thought Harry was asleep and was nearly headed that way himself. 

The sun's dappled light through the tree above throws golden highlights in Harry's curls, makes the bow of his lips look more pronounced. "Could live like this, y'know? Like, home’s nice and Uni is great, but . . . London, man," Harry smirks. His voice is all soft but there's this sense of wonder to his tone, this longing, and Zayn sort of hopes it’s not just aimed at the city Zayn has to live in for work.

"Today's just been - it's been so great." Harry reaches up to grab at Zayn's hand, the one that's been sitting on Harry's shoulder while the other was lost in chocolatey curls. He laces their fingers together, squeezes them tight around the knuckles. "So great."

Zayn can't think of a thing to say in return, just ruffles Harry's hair a little.

They stay in the park until the sun starts to set, the oncoming dark making Zayn brave. Harry stands and pulls Zayn to his feet, too. Zayn leans right in with the momentum and presses his lips to Harry's, quick and sure. It takes Harry a second to kiss him back but it only adds to the warmth in Zayn's belly when he does. Everything about today has felt right, felt _good_ , and Zayn isn't ready to let it go yet at all. 

They walk along the street, hands bumping occasionally, and Zayn's fingers twitch, this tingle at his side, a need to slip his hand into Harry's and not care who can see. But he can't. he knows he can't.

"You ever been on the Eye?" Zayn asks, spotting the top of it in the distance, and Harry shakes his head no. "Want to?" 

Harry stops, green eyes locked on Zayn's as he puts an arm up and hails a cab. It's a short ride and Harry's like an excited puppy, pointing out random bright lights and scenes outside the window. Zayn can't keep up, doesn't see what Harry does, either too used to it or not paying enough attention. He likes watching Harry, though, likes seeing the awe in his eyes, the way his hands move as he talks, grabbing at Zayns thigh when he really wants him to notice something.

It's busy when they get to Jubilee Gardens. It's Saturday night, so the crowds are out in force. Zayn's fingers hesitate over his phone; he thinks about letting Preston know where he is but then he doesn't want any of his security around. It's been lovely all day, just him and Harry. He doesn't want to spoil that now.

The guy in the ticket booth recognises Zayn, gets him pushed up the line so they don't have to wait half as long, which Zayn complains about but Harry shushes him. "You never use your face for things like this - just once, mate," and it's Harry's hand on his elbow that has Zayn letting it go. He signs the ticket bloke’s phone case anyway and takes a few photos with some of the people in line who ask, so he doesn't feel that bad about it in the end.

Harry moves nonstop in the half hour they're circling around. He nearly runs from one side of the glassed-in bubble to the other, much to Zayn's amusement and that of the other passengers, and Zayn eventually has to grab at Harry's arm, willing him to stop. Harry smiles even wider. "But there's just so _much_ ," he whispers at Zayn's side. "It's sort of beautiful."

_So are you_ , Zayn thinks. He watches Harry's face as something new comes into view. Some bright and shiny thing to replace the old from before.

They catch another cab back to Zayn's place and Zayn makes the tea while Harry packs up his things. Harry refuses to stay another night. He has work in the morning and he won't shirk it, even if Zayn does mention he's got another day free that he might not have for a while after this. 

Zayn gives up eventually. He wins the battle on driving Harry to the tube station, one that's a bit closer to where Harry's headed. They're quiet again when he turns the engine off. This time, unlike the rest of the day, doesn't feel quite as comfortable. There's this underlying sadness that's seeping out from Zayn's bones, freezing out the warmth that just being with Harry had built like a good tinder base for a fire all day. There was no spark now, no light. It's just this cold-water feeling that Zayn can't escape. Harry puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder as they sit in Zayn's car stopped just outside the tube station. 

"It's okay. I don't need you to drive me back, the train is fine." 

Zayn turns in his seat, presses his lips to Harry's knuckles where they curl over his shoulder. "I know, but you could stay. Another night won't hurt," he whines, pouting in hopes that it'll help. He should let Harry go. He knows this even as the words leave his mouth.

Harry laughs, squeezing his hand tight over muscle and bone. "I'd stay forever if you asked." 

He kisses Zayn on the cheek quickly before sliding out the car and waving goodbye to Zayn, then he disappears underground.

The quick quip he threw Zayn’s way stays with Zayn for hours.

_If you asked._

It's a question Zayn can't even begin to consider.


	2. PART TWO

_"She’s reinventing loving me, when we’re resembling cutlery on the sofa"_

"This way, Mr. Malik."

Zayn rolls his eyes. "It's Zayn, Rolo." No matter how many times he reminds Rolo of this, _has_ reminded him of this at least once a day for the past three months, it always remains the same.

"Yes, Mr. Malik,” Rolo says, his eyes hidden behind his trademark mirror aviators. Not for the first time since Rolo started, Zayn misses Andy. Andy, whose wife made him take on another client when Zayn started getting big in the States. It made their three-month tour of Europe and Australasia change into this extended US _thing_. 

It was great - it was amazing, really - that he had a single in the top ten and an album in the top thirty. People were starting to take notice, and when Drake tweeted about loving Zayn's sound things skyrocketed. Zayn's Twitter followers jumped from the hundreds of thousands to nearly a million within a day. It was near rolling over that number now, after Letterman had called and Zayn played and even managed a smile at the end. It was gig after gig and interviews and radio and magazine photo shoots and never quite knowing what country he was in, let alone what state when he hit America.

"We're taking the front exit," Rolo says, standing close, and Zayn cringes because he'd been hoping to just go _home_. Sarah had made sure Zayn was front and centre every time they arrived somewhere new, and he had hoped it would end when they finally reached home soil.

Apparently he was wrong.

Zayn follows after Rolo, eyes focused on where the lights above reflect off the circular bald patch on the back of Rolo's head. He's tired. Bone tired. It's making him tense and he was already exhausted from the late-night flight out from New York after the _Today Show_ that morning and a dozen interviews after. He just wants his bed and his flat and a good cup of tea that he rarely drinks, but after being gone so long _tea_ is what he longs for. He just wants to be _home_ and to ignore everything for a little while. To feel settled again in his own skin instead of that of Zayn Malik and his possible number one on the US charts alongside the other twenty or so countries this month.

He just wants to be home and all of what home means to him, and now he's going out the front which means paps and probably a crowd and signatures and fucking _smiling_.

Why can't they like it more when he pouts?

"Do you want your phone back, Zayn?" Preston asks, and Zayn brightens a little, holds out his hand and smiles genuinely in Preston's direction. 

When it comes to those who look after his safety, Preston is his second favourite after Paul, who's already buggered off home to Ireland while Zayn finally gets some time off. Preston holds out the item that has been off limits to Zayn while they've been in America. Zayn had gone on a bit of a Twitter rant after being detained at JFK purely because his name was spelled with an 'i' on his passport, not the 'y' that he's known for. Or, more than likely, because of the fact that he was Muslim, or the colour of his skin. Zayn's lawyers were fast to handle it but it was still seven hours of his life he wouldn't get back, now, wasn’t it?

He turns the phone on, feels it buzz in his hand with notifications of texts and missed calls - no tweets because Paul disabled that app. He concentrates on looking down at his phone instead of up at the paps when they reach the gate. It's easier to ignore their taunts like this. Sarah will be annoyed but Zayn's got some time off now before recording album three. She'll get over it.

It's not that he's looking for anything in particular. Not any _name_ in particular, by any means, because he's talked to Harry. They've Skyped a few times and there's been the odd text or twenty, but with Harry in his second year of Uni now, actually chances to _talk_ have been few and far between and . . . .

The shot the paps get of the look on his face when he finds Harry's name gets over 100k of notes on tumblr before dinner time. "Fond" ends up with a new entry in the Urban Dictionary: The look Zayn Malik gave whoever he was texting on his phone outside Heathrow.

It's nothing, really, just some usual randomness from Harry that includes far too many prawn and eggplant emojis, but it's something. It's more home than hearing a plethora of familiar accents call his name or the chilling bite to the air that still clings even though it's nearing the end of April. A stupid little text and Zayn feels warm from the tips of his toes to the ends of how ridiculously long his hair has become. He really does need to get it cut, but when his driver asks where to, there's only one stop he wants to make. And it's not headed to Louise and her handy pair of clippers and shears to make him look half normal again.

He doesn't even get his bag out when they finally stop. He slept a little on the ride over and feels a bit out of sorts, jet lag making itself known already. Zayn waves bye to a seriously stony-looking Rolo, and blinking with every slow step, makes his way inside and up the stairs. He's raising his hand to knock when the door opens and he nearly gets knocked to the floor as Harry bustles out.

"Shit, shit - sorry, sorry! I'm running late and if I get caught again this month I'll be on - _oh_!" Harry finally stops, looks up from where he's collecting the papers he dropped on the ground, pen in mouth and looking every bit the harassed first year with his curls hidden under a dark grey beanie, scuffed brown boots, those awful ripped jeans, and a jacket that looks suspiciously like the denim one Zayn "lost" last time he was at home. His eyes widen and then he drops everything again and wraps his arms around Zayn’s knees in a move so quick and sudden, he knocks them both to the floor.

He crawls over Zayn while Zayn pauses to catch his breath, and then whatever air he found is gone when Harry kisses him with lips and teeth and tongue, a fierce kiss that takes Zayn by surprise. There’s only a second before he's kissing Harry back just as hard because _fuck_ he's missed this. Missed kissing. Missed touching and being touched and _Harry_ most of all.

"What the fuck are you doing here? Why didn't you call? I _texted_ you and you said nothing, you utter twat!" Harry is leaning up over Zayn with his hands pressed somewhere close to either side of Zayn's head. His bum is settled right on top of Zayn's stomach and it's this heavy weight, this grounding, that Zayn didn't know that he needed until now. Harry's grin is nearly cracking his face in two, the dimples on his cheeks so deep Zayn can't see the bottom of them. Zayn gets his hands on Harry's thighs, brushing up and down over taut muscle and he's _missed_ this.

Zayn opens his mouth to answer but there's the sound of a door being opened down the hall and instead he pushes up on Harry's chest, the smile on his face turning to a frown.

"Yeah, right," Harry says as he shifts off Zayn, curls tumbling out of his beanie as his hand tugs it off. His eyes are hidden now as he bends over and picks up the lost papers once more, and Zayn ignores the ball building in his gut that’s heavy with guilt and shame. He hates that he made Harry have to do that. Have to move just because someone might see. The talking-to Zayn had had in America over "image" now that he was climbing the charts over there was still ringing in his head. He didn't think it mattered, he'd never come out and said what he liked in a girl or a boy or whatever. He'd let people make up their own minds by keeping his answers neutral or directing them back to the music he made.

Harry finishes picking them up and sticks a pen behind his ear before turning back to the open door, and with a nod of his head he invites Zayn to follow him in. Zayn closes the door softly behind him. He picks up Harry's jacket where he's let it drop to the floor, hangs it and his own coat on the rack where there are far more brightly coloured brollies hanging than anything else. The whole flat is rather silent as he treads to the kitchen, where he can hear Harry filling the kettle. It's a bit of normal after the scene at the door, and when Harry sings out that he has Zayn's coffee in the cupboard if he wants, it’s a weight lifted from before. Harry shuffles around and Zayn isn't entirely sure what to do with himself. The table is covered in books and notepads; Harry has some sort of order, Zayn's sure, so he doesn't want to linger there. There's the bench, of course; he could lean in as he always does, breathe in the coffee as Harry makes it, breathe in Harry just by standing near.

That doesn't feel like the best of options either, after Harry's reaction out in the hall, so Zayn finds himself standing mostly in the centre of the room, stuck in this middle ground between too close to Harry and not close enough. It's the way Harry tilts his head when he turns around with their mugs that has Zayn shaking it off, moving in and getting his mug from Harry's hand.

"Sofa?" Harry asks, and Zayn nods, turning and walking from the kitchen quickly because he can't hide the blush he knows is staining his cheeks. He's all out of sorts now, stomach heavy and head light because he was kissing Harry and it was all he wanted until he heard that door, and it somehow feels like they've never been further apart. He sits and Harry does, at opposite end of the sofa, and neither of them looks at each other, just at where the telly is dark and silent. It's awkward as they both blow over the tops of their mugs before taking a sip. It's awkward and it's weird and it's _never_ been like this between them. Ever.

It's not as if Harry is Zayn's boyfriend. It's not as if he _needed_ to come here first. Yet he did. He was the first person Zayn wanted to see, and if he told Harry that, things might be different, but he can't. He has to keep Harry as a friend, wouldn't know what to do if he didn't have him on his side, so he sits and sips and waits for Harry to go first.

"How was America?" Harry asks, and there's this tone about his voice that Zayn can't quite get a grip on. It makes his throat tighten up so he has to clear it twice before he answers.

"Good. Really good. Did you catch—"

Harry's shaking his head, curls fluttering this way and that. "Was revising. Niall saw you, though, on Letterman. Said you smashed it."

It shouldn't make Zayn feel as bad as it does. Of course Harry might have missed it. He's nearing the business end of second year. There's study to be done and classes to get to and he probably has crazy shifts at the record store and cafe he works at, anything to make ends meet. He's not like Zayn. Zayn, who has people who get him a coffee when he's waiting on an interviewer to show up. People who bring him food when he's hungry and on a photo shoot. 

Zayn can recall literally a handful of times since he left that he’s made his own bloody cup of coffee.

He sips at his drink, perfect with its dash of milk and one sugar. It's instant, but it's what his mother could afford when he was growing up. It's the only thing he drinks when he goes back to visit her and any time he's with Harry. It's home.

It's still so awkward, though. It's both of them quietly raising their mugs and breathing softly. Zayn knows it has to do with how he pushed Harry away. He's never done that before. He told Harry about the dressing-down he got in LA, how his management team wanted him to look a bit more approachable for a certain market and that meant maybe going out on a few dates. Getting his name associated with those who were already in the business. Those who already were household names.

He hadn't agreed or disagreed, and when he'd finally talked to Harry about it, Harry’s reaction was simply nonexistent. He told Zayn to do what he had to; at least he'd get a good meal and conversation out of it.

He still feels like he needs to apologise.

"I'm sorry about - about outside there," he says, turning so he can get a read on Harry's face. See if this silence between them is about that or something more.

Harry shrugs. "It's okay."

"It's not, though. You're my oldest friend and you're the first one I wanted to come and see. Haven't even brought a bag with me, and I—" He cuts himself off, feeling his face heat with all that he let slip out just then. He's so tired and Harry's being weird and it wasn't meant to be like this. He just wanted to see Harry and feel him properly in his arms instead of a shitty picture over his iPad Facetime link or tinny voice over the phone. He just wanted Harry.

"Well then, guess if I was the first one you wanted to see it's okay that I'm missing my class for the the third time this month," Harry says, and he sounds serious, like it's not actually okay at all.

"Sorry?" Zayn says, and _fuck_ he shouldn't have come. Harry's nearing exams and he never does this. Never just _shows up_ , because this isn't a love story and Harry isn't his true love.

There's no happy ending here. Zayn knows it.

Harry shrugs, puts his mug down on the coffee table that's littered with more textbooks and a virtual rainbow of tabs sticking out the sides. "It's okay, really. It's for a good cause." He turns and smiles and it settles everything in Zayn's stomach. It's the smile he's most familiar with. The one he's woken up to time and time again. The one that usually graces Harry's face when they see each other after time apart.

It has Zayn grinning in return as Harry slides closer, his eyes never leaving Zayn's when he takes the mug from his hands and puts it on the floor. "I missed you," Zayn says, his voice deep and a little rough. Harry is looking at him with _intent_ now and he hasn't a clue why or how this situation between them has changed so suddenly.

He isn't sure he wants an answer anyhow.

Harry gets up on his knees and swings himself over Zayn's thighs with his hands now perched on either side of Zayn's shoulders. He bends in low, his curls brushing against Zayn's forehead, and Zayn's stomach is swooping again. Harry licks his lips and just _stares_ , and Zayn can't get a read on this look. Can't do anything but let his fingertips graze over the hole in Harry's jeans, feel the knobbly mess of scarred skin from how many times Harry fell off Zayn's skateboard when they were young. Harry's eyes are so green, so bright, and Zayn's memory while he was away didn’t do them justice at all. 

Harry hovers there, just above touching Zayn at all. He can feel Harry's breath in and out as it rushes across his cheek and jaw. It's this exquisite torture and Zayn doesn't know if he wants to force it to end or see just how far Harry will let this tension between them go. Harry's eyes flicker slightly, like he's looking for something, searching. 

"Missed you, too," Harry says in this breathy rush, words spoken mostly against Zayn's lips. 

Zayn slides his hand over Harry's leg quickly, up and right under Harry's thin black shirt and gets a grip on his waist, tugging down so Harry's finally sitting on Zayn's lap. Harry doesn't stay still for long, though. His fingertips are quick to twine into the length of Zayn's hair at the nape of his neck, guiding their kiss as it turns messy and almost dirty when Harry tilts his hips in just the right way. It has a moan ripping low from Zayn's throat and his grip tightening on the soft curve of Harry's waist. Harry grinds down in response and this is so much better than the thoughts Zayn's been getting off to in bland hotel rooms and tiny showers. It's so good that he can feel himself fattening up fast in his pants and is thankful he wore his loosest jeans for the plane ride home. 

"Fuck, Zayn . . . _fuck!_ " Harry nearly whimpers, his lips surveying the line of Zayn's jaw, brushing over the light beard that Zayn's grown while he's been gone. He'd had to fight his stylist on keeping it; the clean-cut look was something the higher-ups wanted Zayn to cultivate. Zayn might have grown it longer than even he was comfortable with just to spite them.

He pulls Harry in closer and gets this rhythm going between when he shifts his hips up and Harry grinds down. He can't catch his breath, is barely able to concentrate on anything other than Harry's hand in his hair, Harry's lips on his skin, and the delicious way Harry's moving above him. 

Zayn moans Harry's name as he pushes up at Harry's shirt, turns his head to bite at Harry's lips, kiss him quick between breaths. Harry lets out this disgruntled sound before sitting back a bit, reaching over his head to tug his shirt off and dropping it on the sofa beside them. He grabs at Zayn's face with both hands when he's done, thumbs pressed in deep to the hinge of Zayn’s jaw. 

"Missed you, missed you so fucking much," Harry says, rubbing the tips of their noses together before kissing Zayn hard and fast. 

Zayn rubs at Harry's belly, soft circles over taut skin and Harry's making these little sounds against Zayn's mouth. He whimpers when Zayn gets the button and Harry's fly undone, slips one hand inside and around Harry's cock. He's already so hard and _wet_ at the tip. Zayn gets his thumb over the slit, smooths the precome gathered there around, easing the way. Harry chokes on a moan as he leans his forehead against Zayn's looking down at where the flushed red tip of his dick pokes through with every downstroke of Zayn's hand. 

"You need to . . . can I?" Harry asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer. Zayn watches as his tongue pokes out, licks across his puffy rose-tinted lips as with shaking hands he gets his hand inside Zayn’s jeans. Zayn has to force himself to still, not buck up and knock Harry off when Harry's hand wraps around his cock. He lets out this long breath instead, tilts his head to the side and nudges at Harry's cheek until their mouths line up and he's kissing Harry, mostly sucking on his tongue and letting it wrap around his own as he goes back to wanking Harry off. Harry rubs his thumb in that sweet spot under the head of Zayn's dick, sending sparks up Zayn's spine and _fuck_ , he's missed this so much.

They work at each other like this, not removing any further clothing, just touching and kissing like there's nothing else in the world they'd rather be doing. It's not slow at all; both of them are too wound up to take things easy. Harry's gasping for air between kisses, his hand a blur between them, and Zayn keeps this steady rhythm of his own. He remembers every twist and tight squeeze that will have Harry making these devastating _sounds_ into Zayn's mouth. It's so good, so fucking _good_ that Zayn really isn't sure whether he wants it to end or slow down, make it last a while. 

In the end he doesn't have a choice. Harry does this thing where he rubs over the tip of Zayn's dick with his palm that probably shouldn't be the thing that kicks Zayn off, but it is. He closes his eyes, can't look - can barely breathe - as he knuts off over Harry's hand. It's lucky he's got a hand in the back of Harry's jeans, holding him to Zayn's lap, with the way Zayn bucks up, nearly leaving the seat as he comes. He's shivering from it when his hearing actually returns and he picks up Harry's voice whispering at his ear. "Please, please, Zayn. Wanna come. Wanna come with your hand on me."

It's just shy of sounding like Harry's begging, but it's enough for Zayn to blink past his own rush of feeling. It's enough to get his hand working over Harry again. To feel the hot, heavy weight of him in Zayn's palm as he speeds up his touch, does all the things that he knows from the years they've been doing something like this will get Harry off.

Harry loses his grip on Zayn's shoulder at one point, lets his head rest there instead, tilting his face to the side so Zayn can feel his breath play over his pulsepoint. His heartbeat still races as Harry rocks into Zayn's touch. 

"Gonna come. You're gonna make me come," Harry says, breathless against Zayn's skin, and Zayn can feel how close Harry is. His own body is still feeling a mix of everything and nothing at all since Harry got him off seconds ago. 

Harry curls right into Zayn's touch when he comes. His teeth sink into the soft flesh at the juncture of Zayn's neck and shoulder. It takes Zayn’s breath away as Harry clings on, moaning loudly as Zayn works him through it. He doesn't stop until Harry's let go of his neck and even then it's because Harry's shivering in his arms; he’s too sensitive to touch and bats Zayn's hand away. Zayn slides his arm around Harry's waist as Harry presses kisses to the side of Zayn's neck. It could be minutes, could be hours that they sit there in silence, jeans undone, cocks pulled out, and only Harry shirtless. 

When they can speak, can move, Harry doesn't say anything of any substance, just reaches over to get his shirt and cleans both of them up. He tucks Zayn's softened prick back in his pants and does the same to his own before throwing his shirt in the general direction of the door leading off to his bedroom. Zayn smiles and Harry does too, and this time when they kiss it's not rushed or pleading like before. This is the feeling Zayn won't and can't name. 

Harry stands on shaking legs and Zayn watches, still too knackered from coming so hard to be much help. He's lucky he even knows his name at this point. Harry pushes at his shoulder, then a bit harder until Zayn gets the picture and lies down on the sofa, head pillowed on the throw cushion in the corner. Harry lies down beside Zayn and nuzzles his way into Zayn’s arms, and it feels even better than getting off. Even better than having Harry's hand on his dick. Having Harry in his arms is enough to make Zayn feel like his heart is growing to five times it’s normal size in his chest. Zayn chuckles as Harry reaches behind him and shuffles a bit to get the comforter pulled off the sofa. 

Harry's like a bloody cat the way he shifts around, tugging Zayn's hands this way and that until he's satisfied. Zayn's got one arm wrapped around Harry's waist, nearly anchoring him, and the other is up near Harry's shoulder, fingertip winding a stray curl round and round. He wants to say something, feels words bubbling in his belly, chasing up to his chest and wrapping around his heart, beating like his heartbeat all rapid in his throat. When he opens his mouth, though, it's to Harry's finger over his lips. A soft shush comes from where Harry's lying more on top of Zayn than at his side.

"Nap. I bet you're in need of a good nap."

Zayn snorts and feels deep in his bones how much he'd love to do that. He holds Harry closer and lets the quiet of the flat and Harry's breathing lull him to sleep.

{ .. } 

Harry's still sleeping when Zayn blinks slowly awake. He's comfortable, so relaxed, and he feels as if he could close his eyes, sink into the sofa with Harry on top of him, and never want to come back out.

"Lookin' pretty cosy there," says this voice from above, and Zayn's eyes shift up from where they were focused on the rise and fall of Harry's back.

He smiles at Niall, who looks a little windswept, dark roots showing under his bottle-blond hair. Zayn opens his mouth to speak but Niall shakes his head. "Just popped back in for a mo’. I'll leave you two to it," he says softly. "Hasn't been sleeping right for weeks now, and you looked tired on Letterman; best leave you both be. I'm heading off to Josh's for the weekend, if he asks."

Zayn nods and whispers his goodbyes, frowns when Niall ruffles his fringe but closes his eyes again when he hears Niall shuffle off to his room.

He must have fallen back off or drifted for a bit when he hears Niall's voice again. It's followed by Harry's, which rumbles over his chest because Harry is still lying there.

"—sure this is what you want? It's only going to get—"

"I know who he is, Niall. I know, all right?"

There's a sigh and Harry's grip tightens where he’s got Zayn's shirt curled into his fist above Zayn's heart.

"Did you get notes from McIntosh today? I still don't get that thing with—"

Zayn zones out after that, lets the rumble of Harry and Niall's soft voices lull him back to sleep. He's heard enough.

{ .. }

The third time he wakes it's to canned laughter and a theme song he's heard many times before.

They've shifted somewhere along the line so Zayn's back is up against the sofa, his body spooned around Harry's. Thank goodness they're both on the lean side and the sofa's got a wide seat or they'd not fit as well as they do. He can feel Harry's muffled laughter reverberate through his spine against Zayn’s chest. It's nice to be here with Harry and Friends on the telly. They haven't done anything like this in so long. Harry's playing with his fingertips, this little tappy-tap with his own, and it's so intimate. It's so perfect how they can just _be_ here and he doesn't want it to end. 

It's been so long since he's felt anything real for anyone except Harry. Probably because as much as he hasn't wanted to admit it in the past, Harry's the only one he _does_ feel anything for. No matter how hard he tries to fight it. Harry's the only one who matters.

Then he remembers the bit of conversation he overheard between Harry and Niall and the warmth in his chest dulls, cools to the point where he shivers and Harry pulls the blanket up further and snuggles back into Zayn's arms. He knows he shouldn't be here. It's giving Harry something when he thought Harry was the one who was fine with the way things were. The near one night stands - if you can call them that - when it was just a laugh and great sex and Zayn out the door. He thought that's what Harry wanted, but being here like this and that last time in the city . . . Zayn isn't sure anymore. He's not sure what he wants himself, either.

He lies there and watches Joey and Chandler play foosball through Harry's curls over his shoulder and lets himself drift. 

{ .. }

When he wakes again, properly this time, it's because Harry's playing with his hair. Not just playing, but when Zayn looks up, nearly going cross-eyed trying to see, he's already made six little plaits and is working on a seventh.

"What's the rule about my hair, Harry?" Zayn mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He finds he's on his back again.

Harry chuckles a little, dimple deep in one cheek as he continues. "No touching unless we're in the tub or fucking." He pauses, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he gets to the bottom of the strands. "Or if you're sick."

Zayn curls his hand over where it's been resting on the small of Harry's back, slides it down over Harry's pert little bum, and squeezes. "And am I any of those?"

Harry bites at his lip and starts running his hand through the rest of Zayn's hair from the crown behind his ear. "No. But you were sleeping and you didn't say no, so . . . ."

Zayn slaps at Harry's bum and Harry's eyes widen, pupils dilating just a little, and _oh,_ that's never happened before. "I was sleeping, you tosser! I generally don't answer questions in my sleep."

Harry snorts, ruffling Zayn's hair even further which makes Zayn frown and try to squish his head further into the cushions and away from Harry's touch. "You didn't complain."

"I was _sleeping_ , Harry!" Zayn exclaims, twisting his head back and forth now, digging his fingers into Harry's side in a last-ditch attempt to get Harry to stop. "Would you just get off me?"

Harry's laughing, his knee poking hard into Zayn's thigh as he tries to wriggle out of Zayn's way but still doesn’t give up on rubbing at Zayn's head. Zayn can't do much more to stop him. His other arm's stuck down beside the back of the sofa and Harry's hand is curled over his bicep as he pushes down on it, keeping it there. 

Finally Harry gives and falls to the side, slipping right off the sofa and landing on the floor with a loud "Ow!" that sounds more embarrassed than hurt. Zayn's still grinning, heart light and arms above his head in a silent cheer, when Harry sits up, rubbing at the side of his head with one hand.

"Pinching is cheating, Zayn," Harry says with what Zayn knows is an attempt to look serious, but it fails because his lip quirks up at the corner, and his lashes flutter as he tries not to smile.

"You braided my _hair_ , Harry. Any hope of me following rules went out the window when you broke them first."

Harry rises up onto his knees and leans in with a "Yeah, yeah," and kisses Zayn soft and sweet, his lips barely brushing against Zayn's own. It's not quite right, though, like a tease, and Zayn's had enough of that. He turns on his side, curls a hand around the base of Harry's neck, and tugs him in closer. Their kiss turns into something more, something a little deeper even though they're just brushing lip against lip. It's this lovely soft thing where Zayn can feel Harry smiling into it, and he sighs before pulling back. Harry's closed his eyes and blinks slowly, his green eyes shining with something that Zayn hesitates to name. He thinks it’s echoed in the beat of his heart. 

Crazy little things that he can't name. Can't let himself even recognise.

"You've been asleep for hours," Harry says, staying close and leaning into Zayn's touch as he rasps his nails over Harry's scalp. 

"How long? It's still light out," Zayn says, nodding at the window where there's an overcast but bright sky framed with those awful green and red curtains that remind Zayn of that one Christmas he'd spent with Harry at his Gran's.

Harry laughs. "You got here Friday morning, that's Saturday outside. Saturday afternoon, actually."

Zayn’s stomach growls and Harry laughs harder. "Guess that's why I'm hungry, then," Zayn says, pulling Harry in to kiss him again because he wants to and it feels good and it hides the way he can feel his cheeks heating.

"I'm not. Food, Zayn," Harry says between kisses. He starts to pull back and Zayn follows and ends up falling to the floor on top of Harry, who smacks his head again. 

Zayn doesn't let it stop him, though. He's already kissing down Harry's still bare chest, sucking marks over warm skin as he sinks down between Harry's thighs. He's good at this. Wants to be good for Harry. Wants to give Harry as much as he can before . . . before anything else comes rushing back in. Before Saturday turns into Sunday and Sunday into Monday and eventually Zayn will have to leave and he'll only have the memory of what they've had together to get him through until the next time he can get back here, get back to Harry.

He looks up when he stops just shy of the elastic waistband of Harry's pants: pale pink with silver bunnies, so unbelievably Harry that Zayn can't decide whether he wants to just look or get them off. Harry's gazing down at him, propped up on his elbows with his lips red and plumped up, chin and cheeks a little pink from where Zayn's beard has rasped against his skin. His chocolatey curls are all dishevelled, looking more like a bird’s nest than anything defined, and _fuck_ , Zayn is so in love with him it hurts. He ducks his head to avoid Harry's stare, those eyes that have seen more of Zayn's secrets than anyone else. He mouths over where Harry's cock is fattening up in his pants and smiles a little when Harry bucks up into his touch. 

"Not food, Harry?" Zayn says, tugging down Harry's pants so he can get his cock out and tucking the elastic just under his balls. He wraps his hand around the base, runs his tongue slow and steady from where his fingers are curled right up to the tip. Harry curses somewhere above, but Zayn pays him no mind. "Here was I thinking you were the first course," 

Harry laughs at that, breaking off into a litany of "Shit, shit, shit, _shit_ ” as Zayn takes him in his mouth and tongues at the tip. Harry's a heavy weight on his tongue and filling Zayn's mouth fast. 

It's the most they talk about food for a while. 

 

{ .. }

 

"Chips - I could really go for some chips and cheese," Zayn says, breathing out three soft rings of smoke into the air, his fingers stroking through Harry's curls where he's got his head pressed mostly on Zayn's chest instead of his shoulder. 

Harry moans a little, and Zayn isn't sure if it's because he's really high or because Zayn's playing with his hair or if it's the idea of food that has Harry making the first sounds he has in hours. They've not really left the sofa all afternoon, alternating between lying on it, sitting close, or like now, with their backs against it. Always together, though, never more than a few inches apart. 

Harry's hand comes up, flaps about in front of Zayn's face until he finds his cheek. He pats Zayn softly a few times until Zayn has to look down at Harry. "More," Harry says, this drawn-out word that makes Zayn chuckle a little. Harry's been making Zayn shotgun for the better part of an hour now, too lazy to even hold the spliff himself. Not that Zayn minds; it means getting his lips on Harry and that's never a bad thing.

"All right then, you lazy bugger," Zayn says with a grin. "After this, we find food." Harry nods and purses his lips, tilts his head up closer to Zayn and Zayn rolls his eyes, taking the last hit. 

He holds the smoke in, drops the last of the spliff into the empty Coke can they'd been using all afternoon as an ashtray. Harry's smiling all soft and blissed out, eyes rimmed in red as far as Zayn can see, his eyelids near closed, every blink a struggle. 

"Spikey," Harry says, patting at Zayn's cheek. Harry's ridiculously cheesy when he's stoned. Zayn shakes his head, fits his mouth to Harry's, and blows. Harry holds their shape for a moment, but then he's got his hand on Zayn's shoulder and he's pulling him in so that they’re kissing more than anything else. Harry's tongue slips into Zayn’s mouth and it's this comfortable thing that turns into snogging for a good while before Harry's exhale escapes between them, floating up to join the rest of the sweet air above them. 

Their kiss doesn't seem to end, just flows back and forth between them for what feels like forever. It's so lovely. Harry's so lovely. Zayn _feels_ so lovely.

Zayn is totally baked and seriously in need of food. 

He pulls back from Harry, who pouts and smacks his lips together. "Food. Cheese, chips and maybe some of those battered sausages."

"Nash's do those with a curry. Oh, I could go for a curry!" Harry says, eyes lighting up as he shifts to lean back against the sofa. Zayn finds himself leaning in again - one more kiss before they go.

Harry's onto that plan, though. He shoves at Zayn's shoulder as he gets up, knock-kneed and nearly falling into the coffee table as he stands. He holds a hand out to Zayn. "C'mon. It shuts at half nine and it's already eight now."

Zayn lets Harry pull him up, staggering a little himself once Harry lets go, which sends Harry into fits of giggles. Zayn stretches his arms above his head and feels all his muscles shift that had gone lax with just lying about for over thirty hours. "I could call Rolo. He could pick us up some. I bet he's around anyway. Like a bloody bad smell," Zayn says with a frown. He likes Rolo well enough. But he's not like Preston or Andy or Max. He doesn't seem to understand that Zayn likes his _space_.

Harry shakes his head, already walking toward the hall, grabbing their coats. "The bus'll be quicker."

Zayn follows, stumbles a little when Harry slaps his jacket against Zayn's chest with one hand while the other opens the front door. They're about two flights of stairs down when Zayn stops. Realises that they're going _out_. Out where it is now actually possible that more people will recognise him and will definitely be able to tell that he's smoked something because he smells like it, and if Harry's eyes are as red as Zayn remembers then Zayn's will be the same. This is against everything that Sarah and her little assistant have warned him against and _fuck_. He can't. He can't go out like this.

"Harry, stop. Wait," he calls out. Harry is already turning the corner to the next set of stairs down. He spins around, a grin on his face, his hair a mess, and it has Zayn's stomach flipping. Fuck food. They can order in. He just wants to spend all his time with Harry and no one else.

Definitely not any of his public or his security. Not anyone.

"What? We're gonna be late and I really want a curry, Zayn," Harry pouts. 

Zayn stands there, biting at his lip as he fumbles with his lighter in his pocket. "It's just, we're pretty high and my single’s at number three this week and I was on _Letterman_ , Harry," he says by way of explanation. Which is no real explanation at all, really.

Harry stares at him for a full minute before climbing the stairs and stopping just in front of Zayn. "One," he says, pulling out his beanie from his pocket that was from the day before and reaching up to tug it onto Zayn's head. "Nearly everyone is at the pub or having dinner at this time on a Saturday night. Two," he says, stripping Zayn's jacket from his shoulders and shrugging out of his own green puffy _thing_ that normally Zayn would never be caught dead in, slipping it on over Zayn’s arms. "You're not _that_ famous, mate."

Zayn frowns, because his numbers have climbed steadily here in the UK. What does Harry know? "And three?" 

Harry grins. "I'm fucking hungry and you were the one who wanted to get food, so let's just fucking get some." He tugs at Zayn's hand then and starts nearly galloping down the stairs, which can't be safe for Harry and his lack of balance on a good day, but Zayn follows.

They do make the bus. Just. They have to run the last few meters to the bus stop as it readies to pull from the curb. They thank the driver profusely, paying quickly before making their way to the back of the bus. Harry asks Zayn all these questions about the food he had while he was away: what was his favourite thing, what did he try and not like? Did he eat any weird sushi over in Japan? It's a conversation that takes them close to the chippy and Harry's laughing at this story Zayn's telling him about when Paul challenged Preston to snorting wasabi for fifty quid, purely because they were bored, when they finally get to the door. It's busy but not too bad, and they make their way quickly through the line and order. It's only as Harry's finishing up with telling the bored teen behind the counter what he wants that Zayn realises he hasn't got his wallet on him at all. He'd paid for the bus with the change lying in the pocket of Harry's jacket but that's gone now.

"Harry," Zayn starts, speaking softly at Harry's ear, "I've not got my wallet on me." 

Harry nods. He pats at his pockets and comes out with only Zayn's phone, near-empty pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. Zayn's stomach drops. He can already see the headlines: "R&B star turned dishwasher for the night, what a chippy chump!" or something a little more creative. 

He smiles at the girl with the glasses serving them but she just stares back at him, a glazed look in her eye as she sighs. Zayn's just about to cancel their order and apologise to everyone around them when Harry slaps some notes down on the counter.

"Forgot it was in my back pocket," he says by way of explanation, taking the change from the girl who's already calling next. Harry's shaking with the laughter he's trying to hold in as they find a space by the window to wait. Zayn ends up punching him in the shoulder to get him to stop.

"Shut it, all right?" he says, looking more at the floor than anything else. He knows his cheeks will be as red as Harry's eyes were back at the flat. "I haven't had to buy anything for myself in a while."

Harry snorts and barks out this laugh and Zayn's hand comes up to cover his mouth straight away. They were supposed to be _unnoticeable_. Harry sounds like a pack of hyenas in one chuckle.

Harry's still smiling behind Zayn's fingertips. He nips at one after a while and Zayn gives him a pointed look. Harry just shrugs and Zayn moves his hand away. Harry's humming one of Zayn's songs after a few seconds of quiet and Zayn shoves him hard. Harry puts his hands up, palms out, with an even bigger grin on his face. Zayn scowls in return. Harry apologises with a nudge of his shoe up against Zayn's and he shrugs, lips turning up at the corners so Harry knows all is well. 

There's a crash in the kitchen which has him jumping, putting his head down and tugging on Harry's beanie. He shifts so he's facing out of the window, Harry at his side, his body tense as he takes deep breaths and tries to shake off this anxiety that seems to be threatening to take hold. He's not had any paranoia when he was high for a long time, but he does feel a bit skittish. Especially when Harry notices how his hand is shaking and takes it in his own, fitting their fingers together and squeezing tight. It settles the jittery feeling in Zayn's body for a moment. Then the bird behind the counter calls out their number and he lets go fast.

He pretends not to see the look of hurt that slips across Harry's face. He gets their order and wanders out, keeps walking even though he's not entirely sure of where he should be going. He heads to the bus stop anyway, only stopping when he gets to the bench and sits. Harry shuffles in beside him and Zayn hands over his package. Neither of them speaks whilst they tuck into their dinner.

Zayn wants to say something. Wants to explain that it's different now. That he doesn't want to hide what he is or how he feels but it's . . . it's just hard. It's private and he doesn't want to give away more than he has to. Harry's his. Always has been.

He's about to say something along those lines to Harry and is rolling the words around on his tongue trying to find a good fit when Harry stands and makes a grabbing motion at Zayn's leftovers.

"You done?" he asks, his eyes not meeting Zayn’s, and the little food Zayn did eat sits in his stomach feeling heavier than before.

Zayn nods. "Not that hungry after all," he answers, handing Harry the package. He's got to say something, got to let Harry know the whys, but before he can say a word these three birds walk past. One does a double take when she catches Zayn's eye and he smiles, being friendly. She drags her friends back, all excited when she asks "Is that you?" and he nods because it’s easier than saying no.

They get into a bit of a flutter then as the first girl informs the other two of just _who_ he is. Then it's "D'ya mind if we get a photo?" and "Give us a cheeky kiss, then!" and "I could give you my number, just headed out now but i'll be home later," and "You should come!"

It makes Zayn's head hurt as he smiles and is ever so polite and he can see Harry standing back, watching from the darker part of the shelter.

"Thanks, love, but I'm out with my friend here," he says, nodding toward Harry who waves, giving them a slight smile that looks tight around the edges. It's been a while since Harry's been a part of "Zayn Malik's" life and not just the Zayn he grew up with. They coo over Harry's dimples for a bit and Harry smiles - a proper smile - and it makes something ugly rear up in Zayn's chest. Something a little like jealousy, which is ridiculous but he recognises it all the same.

"Maybe we could, you know, go for a bit," he finds himself saying, ignoring the way Harry's lips drop at the corners. 

His gaze turns hard as the girls start squealing more than talking. "Yeah, lets do that!" Harry's arm slips around one of the girls’ waists and he brings her in close. "Sounds like fun, and Zayn Malik needs a little bit of that."

It feels like a challenge, and one that Zayn doesn't want to back down from.

{ .. }

 

The beat from the stereo is enough to shake Zayn's chest, like he can feel it down to the marrow in his bones. He lost Harry not long after they got in; Zayn was occupied by the girls and a crowd of their friends and Harry shrank into the background. There's this girl who was flirting with him when they came in - Tanya, as she's told him three times - and she grabs him by the arm and pulls him down to the sofa. He goes easily because his limbs still feel all floaty-like after however many shots he did in the kitchen when they got there and a few shared puffs on a spliff that was going around. He takes the drink someone hands him and settles in, the sofa comfortable and this bird a warmth at his side.

It's all rather . . . boring, really.

He's sitting on this sofa, a crowd of people around him, and they're all talking. Talking, talking, _talking_ \- but Zayn hasn't a clue what it is they're saying at all. He's managed to get a better look around him than before, when he basically walked straight out the back door from coming in the front. It's not a big house, but they've moved most of the furniture in the living room Zayn's in now to the walls. The stereo isn't that great, the sound is pretty tinny, but so far one of his songs has only come on twice and he's smiled and hid a bit behind Tanya, who hasn't left his side since they sat down. He's always done that, found someone to stick to and generally not leave when he's been at parties like this before.

In the past, it would have been Harry he'd been plastered to. Not tonight, though.

He caught sight of Harry not that long ago. He's been dancing with anyone and everyone since Zayn came in. At first it was with the group of girls they'd come with. Then it was some blonde bird and then a group of three lads, and Zayn stopped counting after that. He'd had to participate in the all the discussion going on around him. There was a small crowd of people wanting to ask him all the questions and more that he'd answered in interviews since he started on X Factor. They weren't _that_ invasive, but a few times they made him blush or frown. Then whoever was doing the asking would slap a hand to his knee or shoulder and apologise and tack on, "But fuck, you're Zayn fucking Malik, man!" and all would be forgiven. 

Zayn wasn't settled in his skin here - too many people and too many eyes on him with whispers going on in dark corners or right there in front of him. He kept drinking because this is what Harry said they should do. Have _fun_ , even though Harry knew perfectly well that Zayn didn't find anything about a night like this to be fun at all. He'd had to drag Zayn to shit like this when they were younger, but Zayn didn't want to let Harry be right, to let Harry win. Even though he wasn't sure exactly what they were fighting over, or if they were even fighting at all. 

"Jesus, Zayn, that friend of yours is fucking fit," Tanya says, swinging her legs over his lap and wrapping her arm around his neck. He can feel her long nails scratching through the wisps of hair there - too sharp to be anything but fake. It reminds him of how Harry was playing with his hair earlier and it feels _wrong_. He tilts his head forward a little and she stops, fingertips resting on the skin above his fern tattoo instead.

"'s all right," Zayn says, taking a sip of his drink and looking out into the mass of people in front of him, finding Harry easily because he always seems to be able to do that no matter where they are.

He can see from the corner of his eye how the girl nods to the crowd beside him. "Looks like he's getting on well with Alice at any rate," she says, lips close to his ear, and then she shouts the next part so loud he's wincing. "Get a fucking room, Ally, you tart!" 

Alice - or Ally - flips them two fingers before her fingers get lost in Harry's curls. She’s too busy with her tongue in Harry's mouth or vice versa to say anything in return.

Harry's bloody kissing this girl like it's an Olympic event and he's going for the gold. Harry's always loved kissing people, rarely turned down an opportunity for a snog when they were in high school, so this shouldn't make Zayn feel like it does. It twists something ugly and hot in his gut. He can feel it like bile in the back of his throat so he downs his drink fast, takes the one out of Tanya's hand beside him, and downs that, too, much to her protest. He doesn't say a word, not sorry, not anything, before he's pulling her onto his lap and kissing her quick and hard and it _hurts_. She's all over him, though, those fucking nails back in his hair, scratching over his scalp, and she tastes funny.

She tastes like bubblegum and it's waxy like; her lips were shiny before so it's probably whatever it is that's on them. He doesn't care. He can kiss people, too, and this girl is into it so it's fine. It's fine. 

She pulls back with a grin, brown eyes sparkling. She runs a hand over his chest and he can feel her nails again; why the trend to file them into pointed tips is popular is beyond Zayn. It feels like she's got claws as they rasp over his thin shirt and hard against his skin. "You're fitter, though, babe." 

She looks almost shark-like, big white teeth rimmed in a red pout that's too bright to be real, and Zayn wonders if it smeared on his face. He wonders if Harry will see and care. He doesn't check. He just kisses this girl who tastes wrong and feels too soft, too curvy where his hands lie on her hips. She's wriggling over him and her hair keeps getting in his mouth when he tries to breathe until he ends up having to get a handful of it and curl it in his fist to keep it out the way. She uses too much tongue and he has to keep pulling her back, tries to slow her down and show her what he likes but when he does, she angles his face down and shifts up so his face ends up in her tits instead. She tastes like perfume, all chemical and tangy on his tongue as she tells him to bite her, to leave a mark. 

Then she's being shoved off his lap and this bloke's pulling him up by his shirt, fist raised, and Zayn is laughing. He laughs as this lad - apparently Tanya's boyfriend - snaps a quick fist to his face. He laughs as Harry gets his hand on the bloke’s shoulder and pulls him back long enough that Tanya's jumped up and is slapping at her boyfriend. Harry's at Zayn's side, pulling him out through the crowd with Zayn waving a hand, grabbing a mostly full bottle of vodka as they go. Zayn only stops cackling once they're outside. Harry nearly drags him down the road and far from the sound of the party. 

"Are you actually that stupid?" Harry says when Zayn has to stop because his face is starting to actually hurt. He drops to the ground and sits on the gutter between two cars. He takes a few good pulls on the vodka, doesn't even feel it burn but _fuck_ it hurts worse when he rubs at his cheek. Looking down at his hand he sees it’s covered in dark blood. This doesn't bode well at all.

"Fuck, Zayn! What were you thinking?" Harry nearly yells in Zayn's face, attempting to drag the bottle from his hand, but Zayn isn't having that. He shoves at Harry as he tries to stand and not drop the vodka in the meantime. 

Harry goes to help him, but Zayn pushes him away again. "Leave me be, I can get up on my own. I can do all of this on my own!" 

Harry gets him by the shoulders once Zayn staggers to his feet and shoves him hard against a car and, thankfully, no alarm goes off. "You were nearly in a bloody fight back there! You won't let me even hold your—" He pauses, shakes his head, curls flying wild. "He could have had you and, what, for a fucking bird?"

Zayn doesn't say a word. Can't. Harry's got him pinned hard and he's glaring at Zayn. 

"What did you tell me about your image and all that? Do you want another sit-down with Sarah? Another talking-to?" No, he doesn't want that. Doesn't want to provide more than whatever hopefully grainy photos may show of him kissing that girl that might show up on tumblr later. 

"You're so—" Harry starts, shoving Zayn hard into the window of the car and it hurts, hard enough that Zayn feels it in his spine. "Fuck, you're infuriating. I don't get why you can with her and not—" He breaks off and pushes at Zayn once more before walking out into the street, hands dragging through his hair.

Zayn feels sick. Everything's spinning and his face hurts and he can hear the heartache under Harry's hurt and anger. 

"Oh shit," is all Zayn manages to get out before he's leaning over, hands braced on his knees, and vomiting all over his shoes.

Harry's at his side, rubbing the small of his back when Zayn manages to stop. The world hasn't stopped, though, it’s spinning all around and he falls into Harry's side rather than into the mess at his feet. Harry stumbles a little but supports most of Zayn's weight.

"Sorry," Zayn says, because he is. "I'm sorry," he repeats as Harry gets a better grip around his waist, tugs Zayn’s hand over his shoulder and steps them around the pile of vomit. 

Harry shakes his head, sighing. He doesn't say anything except, "Let's go home, yeah?" 

They start walking and _fuck_ , now Zayn's started throwing up it's like he can't stop. Every ten steps he has to pull away from Harry, lean up against anything that's stable, and wait until he empties his stomach. He can't stop saying sorry and Harry keeps silent and stoic, so much so that Zayn wonders if he's listening at all. After the seventh time he stops counting and just lets Harry lead them on.

{ .. }

 

The next thing Zayn remembers, he's waking up in Harry's bed.

He doesn't move, doesn't even open his eyes because if there's one thing he _does_ remember, it’s just how wankered he got the night before. He keeps his breathing shallow and tries to remember anything after the party last night.

He remembers being hit, moves his tongue to poke at the inside of his cheek and, yeah, that hurts so it's _got_ to look bad on the outside. Lucky he's got some time off for it to heal, but still, if his PR team catch wind of it he'll be in the shit. He remembers stealing vodka and Harry chasing him down the street and possibly a cab or the bus? Maybe that was just the bus ride to get them there, Zayn can't be sure.

He _does_ recall falling in through Harry's door, rushing for the loo, and the kebab that somehow he knows he ate came rushing back up to meet the bowl. Maybe they'd taken a cab, then. Zayn hopes he got Harry to run upstairs and find money in his wallet because Zayn knows how little spare dosh Harry carries around. 

Remembering the toilet has him recalling Harry's fingers on his scalp and across his swollen cheek. He remembers sad, _sad_ green eyes and Harry still being so beautiful, so lovely even though Zayn was far too drunk. Harry was sad and it didn't matter how Zayn apologised, Harry kept looking worse and worse and . . . .

Oh.

_Oh_.

Snatches of their conversation come back to him now. 

_"You’re so pretty when you’re sad. You shouldn't be sad, though. It's always my fault you are."_

"Wanted it to be you. Want you. Always. Want to hold your hand and kiss you like that." 

"My best friend. You’re my friend, _Harry.”_

_"Just. Just want to hold your hand._ "

Zayn groans and rolls to the side and his stomach rolls right along with him.

He's thankful he spent most of earlier this morning with his head resting on the edge of the toilet seat because there can _not_ be anything left in there to come up. He was way too honest with Harry the night before, and what he remembers is probably the bare minimum of what he said. He's said far too much; he should have stopped this long ago. He should have let Harry go and not made him think there was a possibility when Zayn just can't . . . he can't afford that. He can't afford to lose Harry's friendship and he can't afford to bring Harry into his fickle world where he's popular one minute and a has-been the next. He should have severed his ties here long ago.

He rolls out of bed, slow and careful, and isn't too shocked to see that Harry's forced him into an old pair of his trackies and a shirt. He always feels bad, running out on Harry like this, but now? After last night? It's not just his leftover hangover making him feel ill once more.

He shoves his feet into his Doc Martens after checking for any chunky _bits_ , but Harry's obviously given them a quick clean. He's probably already thrown Zayn's clothes from last night into the wash. Zayn doesn't bother with the laces, only straightens and pats down the pockets of his jacket he found on Harry's desk for his phone and keys. He types a quick text off to Rolo, who replies so swiftly that he'll be there in ten, Zayn wonders if he ever left the area the night before. 

Zayn pauses when he hears Harry shifting on the bed, but it's different this time. He doesn't slow, doesn't still to watch Harry rub at his eyes and yawn, stretch his stupid long torso out to rid himself of the kinks in his back that even a good night’s sleep won't fix. Zayn said too much last night, said things he shouldn't have, and Harry was _different_ and he needs to leave.

"I need to—"

"Go," Harry finishes for him. “I figured.” But there's no mirth there, no lighthearted jest at what's become the norm between them, because this isn't normal anymore.

You can't be fuck buddies when you're not fucking anymore. Might not even be friends after all of this.

Zayn looks up and Harry's already out of bed, pulling on a fluffy pink robe with garish orange and green flowers all over it. Another present from Niall, Zayn thinks. He looks good, even in the stupid robe - hair all messed up, curls everywhere and bouncing even more as he yawns all wide until he's blinking again, big green eyes focused just over Zayn's shoulder at the door. "Come on then, I'll walk you out."

Zayn follows Harry out into the flat, his heart feeling heavier in his chest with every step. It has to be like this. He can't have everything. He knows this. It doesn't make it feel any different, just the same. They get to the door and Harry opens it, standing back so Zayn can pass. This is different, too, Harry not holding onto Zayn at least a little bit. No hand on his arm or lingering on his shoulder. Zayn's basically resigned himself to the fact that this might actually be their last time when there's a tight grip on his forearm, turning him around. There's this warmth where Harry's hand slides up his arm, cupping his cheek. Harry leans in and Zayn lets his eyes close, can't watch Harry anymore.

Harry's lips brush Zayn's cheek and the words slip out of Zayn's mouth before he can filter them as Harry pulls back. "Why do you do that? You never . . . always on my cheek."

Harry smiles and it’s this sad thing, no dimples, barely a lift at the corner of his lips. Just bright green eyes that look as serious as Zayn has ever seen them. "Because," he says all soft, brushing his thumb over Zayn's jaw, "if I kissed you how I want, if I kissed you proper, I might never want to stop."

Harry ducks his head, his hand sliding down Zayn's neck till it curls over his shoulder. "Go on then. Your car's probably waiting."

Zayn pauses - freezes really - because this is as close as either one of them has gotten to admitting how they feel. Honestly, without being too many drinks in, just what whatever this is between them has meant. Harry's admission has pulled hard at all the strings that have built a web around Zayn's heart; all the pieces of Harry that he tries to ignore have threaded their way into his life anyway. It's this tight ache in his chest and it feels like he's being torn in two. There's part of Zayn that wants it to be as easy as that, to fall into Harry's kiss, into his arms, into _Harry_ and not come up for air. They'd kick Niall out or find a flat of their own and Harry'd finish Uni and Zayn would start because that had been the plan. They'd love, and fill their lives with each other until nothing else mattered anymore.

Zayn finds himself swaying toward Harry and it would be so damn easy to give in.

_"Zayn,"_ Harry says, all low and tight, and there's a pain in there that Zayn himself recognises. 

Harry's asking him to go. 

Zayn turns and makes it all the way down to the car before lighting his first cigarette. It doesn't matter, his hands won't stop shaking anyway.

 

{ .. }

He has the family down to his for Christmas. The third album's gone well, so well that he's just signed a contract for a further three with enough added clauses that he has more control over the output of his "sound." His account has more zeros in it than he's ever dreamed he'd see, and his financial advisor - because he has one of those now - tells him to invest. A place to call his own feels like the right idea. 

The house has a decent yard, and a basement he's working into a studio. It's private enough that he rarely sees his neighbours through the thick shrubbery that runs the fence line. The house itself leaves him awestruck whenever he walks in the front door. The entranceway opens right up, perfect for the giant tree that his sister helps pick out when she comes down a week earlier than the rest of the family. They have to lean over the balustrade on the second floor to put the star on top, it's that bloody tall.

Doniya makes it her mission to drag him out shopping for all the little things that start making the house feel like a home. She has this ability to sort through the abundance of knick-knacks he's picked up in his travels, situating them so they look important and not just like dust collectors. She goes through his vinyl collection and has ones framed that he won't play because he holds them so dear. It feels a bit like a dick move to have them up on the walls beside the gold record for his first album and the platinum for the second, but not enough for him to take them down. The house starts to feel less cold and clinical, but Zayn still feels every draught that gets through the door down to his bones.

He's finding it impossible to be truly warm these days.

Not with how silent his phone has become from one name in particular.

If Doniya notices he doesn't ask about a certain family friend of theirs, she says nothing. Not even when she mentions going out to coffee with Gemma - Harry's sister - before she came down. Doniya's always been his favourite.

The house fills with the sounds of the people he loves as his family arrive, breaking the morose hold that's surrounded him day by day. By Christmas morning he's the last one awake - as per usual - and everyone else is already in the living room waiting for him. There's an abundance of food and laughs as the day wears on. His sisters love the gifts he bought and his mother cries, "Happy tears, Sunshine! I promise!"

It's nice. It's normality - apart from the setting - and it makes everything else in his life take a backseat. He switches his phone on once. He posts a picture of the aftermath of paper and ribbon under the tree on Twitter after calling Paul to find out the password to his account. He ignores the series of buzzes and sounds and turns his phone off again when his father calls him to dinner. He doesn't have it in him to look right now. Not for one name that might not be there at all.

Late that night, when the house is mostly asleep, he turns his phone on once more, this time on silent. It buzzes with a few more notifications, and when it stops he starts skimming through his texts. Niall's sent him a picture from home. He's back in Mullingar for the holiday and he looks utterly besotted with his nephew, Theo, only a few months old. There are offers to catch up for New Year’s from Danny and Ant, a family shot from Paul, and even a serious, short "Seasons greetings" from Rolo.

Then nothing.

It shouldn't hit Zayn as hard as it does. He hasn't talked to Harry or even initiated contact since he left Harry's flat that morning. Not a word. Not a phone call or text or anything. There was more than one reason he decided to hold Christmas at his house instead of making the usual trip to his parents’, like he knew Harry would. Zayn hasn't been home himself in such a long time. Too many things to remind him of what he had. Of what he's chosen to cut from his life.

He wonders if Doniya has said something, because no one mentions Harry at all while they're in his home. Not one word about the Styles family is uttered, which is completely out of the ordinary what with them still living near each other. Anne and his mum still have Sunday brunch, a tradition started so long ago Zayn can't remember a time that they haven't. So it isn't unexpected, really, when his mum brings Harry up on New Year's Eve, when Zayn's making them a brew and his mum is doing the dishes.

He isn't listening in all that well when she drops Harry's name in. She’s been talking about Mrs. Smith, the token cat lady when Zayn was younger, who lived in the middle of their street. Apparently the RSPCA were there a few weeks back, and she was on the street in tears as they took away more than twenty-eight cats from inside her home. Zayn makes interested sounds - even though he's not, but he's a polite boy - right up until his mum starts talking holidays and destinations.

"Your Harry will probably need to pack some when he heads off. Anne said he's leaving after New Year’s, wants to spend some time getting to know the lay of the land before Uni begins. He's breaking his mother's heart, but you've got to let your children go sometime. At least she had her Harry for a bit longer than I got to hold onto you," she says with a sigh, before setting down a plate in the drying rack.

Zayn pauses with his hand on the sugar bowl, because this is literally the first he's heard of this, of Harry leaving. "Mum," Zayn says, the word getting caught in his throat. She was the one who pushed him to go to the auditions. She even helped Harry drag him out of bed that morning when his entire life changed.

"I know, I know," she says, shaking her head. "You’re just a phone call or a text away. I know. But you still come home or show up every so often. Don't know how Anne's going to cope with her Harry off for a year. It's not like with you. You can afford to get home if you're feeling poorly. Who's going to look after Harry when he's on the other side of the world?"

Zayn blinks and turns around properly. "It's not for that long, is it?" he asks as nonchalantly as he can muster. They're supposed to be best friends. Even though they haven't talked in a while, Zayn would have thought Harry would say _something_ about disappearing from the bloody country.

"A year in Australia 'not that long’?" she answers with a laugh, scrubbing at the pan she'd just cooked them all eggy bread in. Zayn's favourite. The one that Harry nearly always made when Zayn stayed over.

The food that’s turning over in Zayn's stomach now.

"Now look, I think it's absolutely marvellous Harry was accepted into that program to study abroad for a year, and I couldn't be prouder when he received those grants to pay his way. But a year? A whole year? I don't think I'd cope."

She goes on to talk about Anne and Robin putting their wedding on hold until Harry gets home. That they've waited this long, a little longer won't hurt at all. Zayn doesn't really pay attention, though. His mind is reeling with the fact that Harry didn't tell him about this at all. That this has obviously been a long time in the planning - programs like this don't just pick and choose people at random - and he never once mentioned it to Zayn. Not a word. 

It sinks something hard in Zayn's gut as he walks out of the kitchen and up to his room in a daze. He can't remember climbing the stairs, feels numb and cold as he sits on the edge of his bed and picks up his phone from the bedside drawer. He clicks through to Harry's Twitter account, then the link to his Instagram that he knows Harry uses the most. There are several updates from today, but the last one has his heart in his throat. He doesn't feel the tears streaming down his face, just notes the way they splatter on the screen over a photo of eggs and bacon made into a smiley face on the plate.

"HarryStyles: Last Brekky in Bradfordstagram!!!"

It's probably all for the best. The greater good.

Even if it hurts like hell.


	3. PART THREE

_tell me how to fall in love the way you want me to_

This thing he has with Perrie. It's not something he looked for.

He meets her at a horrible party the label have thrown for some up-and-coming. Zayn goes because Sarah tells him he has to but he really really doesn't want to. He's still a little heart-sore. Still a bit angry at himself for letting things go the way they did. Still pissed at Harry for fucking off to the other side of the world. He goes because Sarah can be incredibly persuasive and he really hates doing interviews and she mentions doing some early to spread hype about the third album and the tour coming up. He worries her down to two live interviews and two in print - which he probably would have had to do anyway - and gets dressed and out the door just a little later than she wanted him to be.

The first time he sees Perrie she's walking out and he's walking in, late as usual. There are quick introductions at the door where he notices her shockingly pink hair pulled into a quiff at the front that could rival his own. He's seen her before. Safa loves Little Mix and he was forcibly made to sit through their album when they were all together at Christmas. In real life, though, Perrie is a whole lot more. She's pretty - nice body, great legs, and a killer smile - and later he remembers her accent when she mentioned a cover he did for Radio1's Live Lounge that she loved. She tells him to listen in a few weeks when her band will be on.

He nods and kisses her cheek goodbye, all awkward like, because he thought she was leaning in for that and it was mostly for a handshake on her part. They laugh and her bandmate with the big hair and bigger heels pulls Perrie out the door. Zayn doesn't think about her again that night, too busy having to smile and be nice to those who sign his contracts.

A few days later he's standing in line waiting to order a coffee when he hears her voice behind him. Her hair's down, all soft about her shoulders, when he turns to say hello, not wanting to be rude. They talk about the new ink on his arm until both their names are called. His phone rings and Perrie leaves with a kiss on his cheek that she means while he finishes his call. He blushes so bright it shows up in the few fan photos he takes ten minutes after she's gone.

The third time they run into each other is literally on the street. Zayn's supposed to be heading out to a club with a couple of lads from the band, Perrie to meet a friend at the movies. Neither of them end up where they're supposed to be. Instead it's a quiet hole-in-the-wall restaurant where they laugh right through dinner and continue until it closes. Then it's back to Zayn's place and watching movies until they fall asleep on either end of the sofa. Perrie leaves in the morning with his number in her phone and plans to catch up again that weekend.

Zayn is satisfied with making a new friend. Someone he can share a story with, have fun just being around. As their schedules match up, he discovers what a homebody she is. She loves animals like he does, wants a pet but with the band starting to take off and all the promo for their first album she can't get one. She isn't a huge fan of living in London, misses home and her mother's cooking a lot. He's happy with how much fun he has when they're together. Happy for someone new to watch TV shows with or discuss all the shitty parts of the industry they're in with someone who understands, is going through the same sort of stuff.

It doesn't occur to him what it might look like to anyone on the outside. Not until the paps catch them walking out of Tesco's late one night, Zayn pushing the trolley and Perrie riding on the front. They laugh it off the next morning, snuggled up on Perrie's sofa with a pot full of strong tea and a plate piled high with jammy toast. They've not even kissed at this point, much to the paps’ jeers when Perrie walks Zayn to the door.

"C'mon, love! Give 'im a real kiss, then!"

He flicks them two fingers and goes in to kiss her cheek but finds her lips instead, Perrie having turned her head at the last minute. They both step back and blink a bit faster than normal, Perrie's giggle light as he says one more awkward, stuttered goodbye. Zayn heads straight to his car, ignores the paps’ catcalls, and drives home, locking himself in the house. It feels weird, like he's being deceitful, but there's no one he could possibly be cheating on. He tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about how he feels at all, because that just leads to paths he doesn't want to tread on anymore. Especially when they end in Australia and a boy whose heart he broke. 

He avoids thinking about it all until he opens his email to an all-caps question from Safaa on what his relationship with her _favourite_ member of Little Mix is, accompanied by a shot taken outside Perrie's building. Next is a text from Perrie saying she's blowing her favourite image up, giving it pride of place on her kitchen wall.

They don't talk about it but laugh it off as one of those things that just seems to happen between them. Zayn thinks about it a lot, thinks about how nice it was to kiss someone again, even if it was a quick press of lips on lips. He thinks about whether maybe it would work this time. She's lovely, she's in a band, and they could keep it simple. He likes her, likes the way she feels when they curl up together on the sofa, likes waking up to her singing in the shower when she spends the night.

When she gets back from doing a short radio tour of England and The Late Late Show in Ireland he doesn't hesitate to visit when she calls. He helps her bleach out the pink from her hair, lets her put a swirl in the front of his own when she asks. It's when she's washing it out, Zayn lying back with his head over the kitchen sink, that he kisses her properly. She's frowning a little, trying to make sure none of it washes down into his eyes, when he does it. Her blue eyes are focused on the job, the tip of her tongue poking out at the side of her mouth.

He pulls back, breath catching in his throat because she kissed him back - just a little - but then nothing more. Zayn watches her face, looks for some sign that what he did was wrong or right.

"Okay then," she says, her cheeks pinking up as she smiles. Her fingertips slide into the wet mess of his hair, slipping down to cup his cheeks with both hands. When she kisses him this time, it's filled with intent. This easy thing between them has developed so naturally, so sweetly that Zayn hasn't time to think about it going wrong. He reaches out, grips her hips, and pulls her down onto his lap. If he's going to do this, then he might as well do it right.

They get papped the next morning, but this time with nothing more than shared smiles on their faces. Fingertips are linked as she walks him to the car from the front door.

Zayn tells Sarah about it. Doesn't want to make it into too big a deal, but agrees to turning up at events with her while they're both in town. Flies her out to Paris when he does a show there and turns up in Sweden when she and the girls are starting the European leg of their promo tour. It's nice and it's not always about sex. Sometimes it's just to hear a familiar accent from home. Sometimes it's just for a cuddle when they're homesick. Sometimes it's to shag all their stress out. Whatever it is that develops between them, it never completely takes up Zayn's heart.

{ .. }

Zayn's ears are ringing when he steps off stage. He grabs the bottle of water from Marco, who slaps Zayn on the back by way of congratulations. Paul is there, too, his smile wide, and Zayn is bouncing with the adrenaline still coursing through his body. He nods and smiles at faces that have become familiar over the past few months. It's his second time touring in the States, but the first as a proper headliner. It's mad really. He feels like at any moment he's going to wake up properly and find he's still at home, still sleeping in his bed at his mum's in Bradford, just another normal lad lying about, avoiding having to deal with life in general.

He really hopes it will never happen. He's grown to love this life he has, as surreal as it is.

More people are in the dressing room when he gets there. A round of cheers goes up that he meets with a roll of his eyes, a grin pulling at one cheek until he's shaking his head, laughing. There are more slaps on his back as he polishes off his water. More "Great show" and "You killed it!" and the like as he pushes his way in and finds a seat beside the one person he actually wants to see tonight.

"Hey, babes," is all she says, lifting an arm so he can settle in beside her. She turns toward him, sliding her legs over his lap, bringing a hand to the side of his face until their foreheads meet. Zayn closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and for a second it's enough to make the white noise of the well-wishers and the hangers-on and his team fade out. It's just him and Perrie and it settles the buzz under his skin, the need to swallow nearly everything down.

"Better?" she asks. He sighs in answer, this long breath of air whooshing out, his fingertips gripping a little too tightly, probably, at her waist.

"Oi, you two! Enough of that, now!" Jesy squawks, her arm wrapped around Leigh who's in a tight black dress. There's this cutout piece on Leigh's hip and Jesy's red nails are vibrant where they're curled over bare skin.

Leigh grins. "You promised us a night out proper! Last time we'll be together in the same town!"

Perrie's brows lift and her blue eyes are bright as she licks over pink lips and _fuck_ , sometimes Zayn is blown away with how pretty she is. Maybe he doesn't want to share her on the dance floor tonight. Maybe he just wants to take her back to his hotel room before she heads in the opposite direction with the girls. Zayn's got a show in Boston in two days before he heads over the border to Canada, and then back in August for Lollapalooza in Chicago.

Lollapalooza. It's a festival the lineup of which he only ever drooled over, and now he's going to be playing on the same stage as Frank Ocean and Childish Gambino. It's intimidating is what it is, but he's flying out Danny and Ant and they're making a weekend of it. Eminem, Tinie Tempah, Coldplay, and rounding Sunday out with The Arctic Monkeys. Zayn's excited for it, even if it's just for the bands he's going to get to see.

He's got a bit of time off after that, two weeks to be exact, then he's off to LA to record album three at EastWest Studios.

The last email he opened from the record label said they were in talks with Pharrell Williams to produce a few songs.

Zayn has avoided his email since, not really wanting to know the answer either way.

"We'll be there, just gonna get some food into this one," Perrie says, her hand coming up to stroke at his jaw, her thumb resting in the middle of his chin.

Zayn grins, loving how this _thing_ that's developed between them in the past five months has evolved into her knowing exactly what he wants without him saying a word.

"Paul!" she calls out, her eyes still locked on Zayn’s, and Zayn leans in and brushes the tip of his nose against hers.

"All right, you lot, out you go." Paul's thick irish brogue cuts through the general hubbub of the crowd in the room.

Zayn doesn't look up, though, still lost in Perrie's gaze.

He can hear Leigh whining and Jesy dragging her away, then Jade's familiar laugh as Paul wrangles everyone out with a few choice words. Paul knows by now how much Zayn values his privacy, the small moments he manages to catch with Perrie. He's going to see that Paul gets a raise after this tour. He's worth every pound.

Perrie's still staring at him as the room falls silent when Paul closes the door. Zayn says nothing until she crosses her eyes, pursing her lips together, and he's laughing. He digs his fingers a little into her side and she squawks, can't keep her face straight as she leans back to get away. He falls on top of her and her legs are quick to wrap around his body, pulling him in close as she wrestles his hands away from her sides.

"Got me where you want me, did you?" Zayn asks, breathing a bit heavily from laughing just as much as Perrie did. Her long fingers had found the right spots to tickle him back while they tussled.

She nods and rolls her hips up, her thighs tight around his waist. "Sort of. Not exactly comfortable, this sofa, though." She frowns and Zayn moves to get up, feeling bad.

Perrie only tightens her grip. "Didn't say I wanted to move, though, now did I?"

Zayn revels in her smile, in the company of someone who wants to be with _him_ and understands the craziness that this life is all about. It's easy to lean in and press his lips to hers. Easy to fit one of his hands under her bum and pull her in close and snog good and proper for a long while.

Well, until Paul pounds on the door and tells them they need to get this show on the road.

{ .. }

Perrie leaves early the next morning, waking him up slowly with soft kisses and warm hands on his body. She's so lovely, this girl he gets to have from time to time. He kisses her back and the sex is slow and sweet and sometimes, when she looks at him, he thinks she's going to say three little words that could change it all. She doesn't. Just looks, and Zayn lies in bed, watching as she gets dressed and puts the few things she'd left out back in her carry-on. Jade knocks on the door a few moments later and tells them to hurry up. 

Perrie climbs on the bed and crawls over Zayn so she can sit with her bum right over where she was riding him only minutes before. She's smiling down at him and he can see something different in her blue eyes, this little bit of sadness, and he wonders if he put that there. Then again, he's always been the best at making people he shags look sad after. For a second her eyes look different, almost green, but then Zayn blinks and it's gone. He reaches up and tucks a few loose lavender strands of hair behind her ear, and she leans into his palm and turns her head to press a kiss in the centre.

"Will you miss me?" she asks, and it's quiet enough in the room apart from their breathing and the hum of the air conditioning unit, but he can still hear the slight tremor in her tone.

It makes something pull at his heart that hasn't been there before now. Hasn't been there in a long while. 

"Yes. Always do when you're gone," he answers just as quietly and yet equally truthful. He's grown used to having her around on this tour, whether or not their dates meet up often, Skype chats when they don't. 

She looks down, the bright colour of her eyes hidden by the dark length of her lashes as she traces over the wings on his chest with one finger. "This is good, between us." Her voice is even softer now as she concentrates on the feathered tip on one wing. "We never talk about it, but it's good, isn't it?"

Good? Zayn's not even sure that's the right word. He loves what he has with Perrie - this partner in crime, this woman who makes him laugh and knows exactly why it is he needs the quiet sometimes. He does love what they're doing. But he knows that he doesn't love her. 

How can he, when he's still so very much in love with someone else?

"Yeah," he nods, forcing the words from his lips because he likes her well enough to admit that much. "We're good."

Her smile isn't as happy as he thought it would be, not quite full as she leans in to kiss him once more. He pouts, ready to meet her lips, but they press against his forehead instead. She doesn't look at him when she swings her leg over, slides off the bed, and puts on her coat. She still doesn't look at him when she's got one hand on the door, her little bag clutched in the other. 

"When we meet up next, when you come back to home soil, we might need to talk," is all she says, and she's gone before he can think of an answer.

It sounds like an ultimatum of sorts; of course this was going to end tits-up. He should have known that in the end she'd want more, want a whole of a something that isn't there. His heart shattered from the first time he tried to have a little of what he wanted and now half of it is probably lying on the beach somewhere in Australia, not knowing that if Zayn had been brave enough he could have had it all.

He sleeps fitfully once she's gone, not quite letting himself completely slumber, just drifting from thought to thought with pauses where he must nod off. It's rare for him to have a little down time, but Boston isn't too far. They're flying in later that afternoon because Zayn's had enough of their stupid little tour bus and he wanted a night with Perrie before she flew home. Maybe that was a sign, then - the fact that he gave up things to be with her. He never really did that for Harry. Never even gave it a thought. 

Harry was different, though. Perrie never quite made Zayn feel like Harry did. Even now, even with all the distance between them and words left unsaid but felt all the same, he knew he still loved Harry. Knew that Harry still had a hold on him that Perrie would never be able to completely compete with. 

Especially now, when contact between them consists of Zayn stalking Harry's Twitter and Instagram accounts. When the only news he hears is through his mother and that's mainly about how happy Harry is. How he's learning to surf. How gorgeous his instructor is. How he's an expat, too, a few years older than Harry. How lovely they look together. How settled Harry seems, even so far from home. 

And Zayn sees it, too. He gives in every so often, opens up the bookmark he shouldn't even _have_ in his phone and scrolls through Harry's obvious happiness.

Sees the photos of Harry smiling wide, his arm wrapped around the waist of this pretty lad with warm brown hair, sun-kissed tips light at the ends of the fringe that swoop across his forehead. Bright blue eyes that would rival Niall’s or Perrie's for how clear they are. This "Louis" that Harry has countless images of in all manner of poses. Riding waves in a tight black wetsuit that hugs his shape, all curves and a great bum. Head on Harry's shoulder, eyes crossed and mouth turned down like a circus clown. Red lips wrapped around an ice lolly looking as lewd as it sounds and Harry's "not for mums eyesstagram" tagged under it. Those same lips on Harry's cheek, on Harry's own in selfies that look far too intimate for Harry to be sharing with the world. 

The one Zayn sees now, only hours after Perrie's left and after a restless slumber where he just can't put his feelings into any order. He slides his phone open, clicks through, and there it is. The one photo that sinks that last little piece in his heart.

It's stupid, really. It's not even one Harry's taken himself. It's white sheets and wild brown curls and eyelashes so long and curved they'd brush Zayn's cheek when they slept close. It's Harry in Harry's bed with Louis’ chest as Harry's pillow. Zayn can see the swirl of black ink that makes up the words he'd memorised as Louis’ chest piece.

It's Harry moving on.

He calls Perrie when he knows she'll have landed. Tells her there's a ticket to fly right back if she wants. If she wants to hang out a while longer. The unspoken _if she wants him._

The photos the paps get of him picking her up and swinging her around at arrivals are headline entertainment news in several newspapers across the world. That isn't to mention the celeb buzz sites that send the rumour mills into overdrive. Even his mum sends him a text wanting to know how serious this is.

Zayn doesn't care who sees.

{ .. }

 

Zayn falls a little in love with New Zealand. He's come down a week earlier than he needed to get over the jet lag and to have a look around before he has to actually "work." Not that it's really that much in the way of work. An hour set here in Auckland, then it's off to the east coast of Australia, following the ocean down and around, finishing off in Perth in a little under a month. He's not a headliner, nowhere near, but his name is third on the list of those in one of the bigger tents, so it's something. 

New Zealand is perfect for what Zayn needs. It's pretty chill. He can hang out at his hotel, get a massage or just _sleep_ , which is mostly what he wants to do. He meets up with the tattoo artist who did the fern on his neck the first time he came to Auckland. Is bored enough on his third day there that he sits down and has a bird added underneath it. 

By the time he's actually due on stage, he's near buzzing with energy, ready to perform. It's great. The crowd are fantastic and they sing his words - _his_ words - loud and he can't stop smiling. He plays them a new song he's been tinkering with, tells them he's not sure of it so feedback would be nice, and they fucking _devour_ it. It's . . . this is what Zayn lives for. This is what he's given up a lack of privacy and being able to make major decisions in his life for. This is why he could afford to finally buy his parents their own home just before the holidays, since he didn’t care about travelling to Bradford to see his family this year. Not when he had Perrie to come with him. Not when he had a feeling that verged on actual, proper happiness warming him from the inside out. 

Her smile couldn't have been bigger when he asked her to come up with him for Christmas. They'd made the most of their time off; Little Mix played the Jingle Ball, their only commitment for the holiday season. Zayn had nothing on either - blessedly - because they'd booked him for a summer festival in Australia. Then it was another world tour, bigger venues and fewer dates after that, banking on how with every album he released his popularity would rise, and sales would nearly double. 

His family loved Perrie, just like he knew they would. She _was_ pretty amazing, after all. She hadn't hinted about doing anything together. Though, when he caught this look in her eyes after Jade and Leigh talked about heading to their partners’ families for at least part of the holidays, he thought it was the right thing to do. It was just . . . he'd not brought her around to _all_ of them before. She'd met Doniya a few times - they'd become shopping friends - and Safaa and Waliyha were a bit overwhelmed backstage after a Little Mix concert. But this was his mum and dad. More importantly, his _mum_. 

Zayn's mum was the deciding factor in any of her children's relationships, not that Zayn had much experience with that. Before Perrie there'd really only been Harry and a few one-night things and his short-lived fling with Rebecca in the house. She _did_ have something to say about that at the time. "She's a bit mature, Sunshine, and shouldn't you be concentrating on winning, love?" That was all, really, and Zayn didn't even think she knew about Harry. Then again, with how much she'd been going _on_ about him whenever Zayn called, maybe she knew more than she let on.

"Harry's Louis is _such_ a lovely boy," she'd said. "Anne and Robin are using that lottery win to fly over for the summer. They're taking Gemma, too. Then they're all flying home after. Harry has his mum looking at places for him and Louis when they get home. For both of them, together." 

Zayn had just sunk lower in the cushions of his sofa. He didn't want to hear about how _wonderful_ Harry's partner was. He was happy enough for Harry - could never deny Harry having someone to love, someone who could love him easily in return. It just - it hurt that it wasn't _him_ who could do that. It hurt more whenever Zayn's mum began talking about it, which, if she rang Zayn after a Sunday brunch with Anne, was mostly what she did.

"Had a lovely chat with Harry's boy while Anne was making us a brew today. He's such a sweetheart, well mannered and all. He's gorgeous, got these big blue eyes, just like your Perrie's." She'd paused. "Not that I could compare them, really, not like I've actually _met_ your girl," and Zayn had brought a hand to his forehead, pushing down with finger and thumb on the ache that was starting behind his brow. So he'd told her they'd come up for the holidays. That it was all arranged already. That Perrie couldn't wait to meet them.

Then he'd asked Perrie straight after getting off the phone.

It wasn't as if he was competing with Harry. It didn't matter that Harry was looking for a house for him and Louis to live in together when he wasn't even _home_ yet. It didn't matter that Harry'd been with Louis just as long as Perrie and Zayn had been doing their thing, yet moving in together hadn't even been a subject that came up between them. It didn't matter that Harry was obviously ready to settle down, and Zayn . . . Zayn and Perrie were different, that was all. They both had careers where they were hardly ever _at_ home, so what did it matter if they didn't have one together?

Zayn was fine with what he and Perrie had. Absolutely.

Until a week before Christmas when his mum sent him a picture of the cat Louis and Harry had adopted after Louis found it in a box beside the road. It wasn't jealousy of the fact that things just came so easily to Harry that had Zayn pulling Perrie into a pet store. It wasn't. If Harry could get a bloody kitten when he was due to leave the country in a month, then Zayn could get a puppy that could live between both his and Perrie's houses. It was a great idea. Perrie thought so. He made sure to upload a picture onto Instagram of him and Perrie kissing Hatchi. He didn't think of it as spiteful when he titled it "family pic."

He shouldn't care about what Harry was doing. It had been a _year_ , and he'd found someone and Zayn had Perrie. It shouldn't matter what Harry did with his heart, especially when Zayn was so obviously not in it anymore. It hurt, though. It hurt most when Zayn was alone, Perrie was off doing her thing, and Zayn was in the dark of his flat or a hotel room - _that's_ when the ache would set back in. That hollow place in his chest where no matter how many times Perrie told him she loved him, no matter how many smiles she sent his way or how many times they managed to wake up in each other's arms, _none_ of that ever truly filled the space there. That was Harry's and Harry's alone.

When Zayn got back to his hotel room in Auckland, Harry was the last possible thing on his mind. He was wound up tight, hands shaking with the buzz beneath his skin. He could have gone out drinking with the others, could have stayed and watched a few more bands. He didn't want to, though, couldn't even settle on one thought or another.

Zayn finds himself pacing his room when he gets back, smokes too much out on the balcony, and when it gets too windy to do even that he throws himself on his bed fully clothed. He's got the remote for the TV in his hand and flicks between channels, unable to even settle on something shitty to watch. It's a blessing when he hears the sounds of an incoming call on his iPad. 

His smile grows even bigger when he sees it’s a call from Perrie.

She squeals a hello when he answers and he slides his iPad onto the pillow beside him so he can pretend it's like she's there, lying beside him. The bed's too big, too empty . . . but he can pretend. 

"Hiya, babes!" she says, her hair candy-floss pink again around her face, bright at the tips. She's all made up but worn around the eyes, and her lips have only the slightest tinge of colour left. 

His hello in return gets lost as she turns her head to call out something he can't quite hear to the other people in the room. He picks out Jesy and Leigh calling out hello, and more laughter. Perrie's focused on them, smiling as they trade banter back and forth, rubbing at her left eye so the black liner smears even more. He waits for her to finish - she did call him, after all - and gets sleepier and sleepier the longer she giggles and takes the piss out of Jade for something that happened earlier. Zayn can't quite follow along, they're talking fast and loud and they've obviously just got back from somewhere, even though if Zayn can sort out the time difference right, it's nearly four in the morning where they are.

As his eyes start staying closed longer than they're open, he calls her name a few times to get her attention.

She looks back at him, pink tinging her cheeks as her lips form a soft smile, the one he's used to waking up with when they finally get a lie-in together. The one she usually rings off their Skype sessions with. The one he likes best of all.

"All right, you lot, my boy’s getting sleepy so fuck off a moment, won't you?" she calls back, blue eyes focused on Zayn's in the little screen in front of her.

The girls all make these innuendo-laden sounds and Zayn would normally say something back but he's come down from the earlier high of performing. He just wants to hear Perrie's voice, and the sooner they're gone the sooner he'll be able to.

The door shuts behind them, leaving Perrie in silence. She yawns, maybe as tired as he feels.

"You tired, babe? We can do this tomorrow or something," he says, voice soft and slightly raspy with the use it had earlier.

She shakes her head, slides her fingers through her hair making a messy bun at the back while she answers. "It already is tomorrow here," she answers through a yawn. "Just gone half four. Vegas really is the city that never sleeps." She blinks back at him, looking more like the girl he spends the odd day laying about on the sofa with. Her in old pairs of his trackies and shirts that are too big on her, sliding off one shoulder.

He misses home so much in that second it's like a physical _ache_. He's been looking forward to this little jaunt across the sea. It wouldn't have mattered where he was, because Little Mix are off in America, supporting this once-Disney TV famous singer or something, so he wouldn't have had Perrie around anyway. He would have had too much time to himself, too many empty spaces, too much silence, impossible to fill.

"Are ya all right, love? You look sad, did the gig go bad?" she asks, shifting her iPad around so it's the opposite of where Zayn's is, settling down on the bed so that through the magic of modern technology, this could be them in either one of their beds at home or on the road.

He shakes his head. "No, it was good. Really good. Played them that song I've been working on—"

"The one that still hasn't got a title?" Perrie interrupts, her eyes sparkling for a moment because it's been this _thing_ for the past three months. Zayn loves this song, has this connection with it, and has argued back and forth with the producer about its place on the new album. He just doesn't have a name for it yet.

"Shut up," he says as he turns his cheek into the pillow, hiding most of his grin from her knowing eyes.

"It's a good song. You know what I think about it. Did they like it?"

He rolls onto his side, shifts his iPad around so he can see her face better. "Yeah, loved it. Picked up the chorus and were singing it back to me by the end."

She smiles properly back at him. "I hope you recorded it to send to Jamie. Tell him to stick his bloody worries about it being too dark up his arse!"

He laughs because there's no love lost between his producer and Perrie. She thinks he's a bit of a twat and he thinks she "distracts Zayn from his potential." It's ridiculous really, they both want the best for Zayn in the end.

They talk about their days for a while, trading stories of funny moments and boring bits until Perrie's eyes are fluttering and she's speaking through exaggerated yawns more than anything.

"Think we should sleep, Zayn," she says, her hand missing as it gets close to the screen, probably patting at his face like she does when they're in bed.

"Probably. I've got a flight out to Brisbane in the morning . . . well, later this morning," he says, eyes flicking to the alarm clock on the bedside table. The red numbers are flashing two forty-five. His flight's just after nine.

She huffs, her nose turning up in the way it does when she's found Hatchi has failed at toilet training again and used her shoe instead.

"Oh!" Perrie's eyes widen and she lifts her head a bit from the pillow. "Isn't that where your mate's finished up Uni? Your mum was telling me about him at Christmas. Um, Louis?"

And it's like the air's been knocked out of his lungs. He can barely voice his answer. "Not Louis, Harry. Louis is Harry's—" He pauses, unable to say the word. Then again, Louis _is_ Harry's, and Harry is Louis', and Zayn has no hold on Harry at all.

If Perrie notices how her even mentioning a name he didn't think she knew about has affected him, she doesn’t call him on it. Just continues on in that bubbly manner he's grown so fond of. The giggle that he knows so well, that fills spaces inside his chest that were hollow for too long. Never quite enough, though, never enough.

"You going to see him, then? Get him passes or something? Trisha said you two were thick as thieves not long ago."

Zayn shrugs. "We're not that close anymore, might be a bit awkward," is all he gets out because what else has his mum said? What else does Perrie know or _think_ she knows?

"But Zayn, he's your friend and he's been in Australia for a whole year, surely you want to catch up? Be a friendly face from home and that?" she pushes, and he feels himself freezing up, a frown forming at his brow.

"He's got Louis, and Louis' from home or close. Yorkshire or summat," Zayn mumbles, nearly whines because he doesn't want to be talking about this. Hasn't had to think about Harry and his _Louis_ in a while. And it's Doncaster where Louis Tomlinson comes from. Not that Zayn's Facebook-stalked him at all. Hasn’t looked through all his photos and posts and hated him just a little for the ease with which his relationship with Harry evolved.

He's not _jealous_ at all. He has Perrie.

He _has_ Perrie.

"But babe, you're his friend. Don't you think—"

"I haven't talked to him in over a year, Pez. It'd be weird like to just—"

"—more weird if you're in the same country and you don't even make an _effort_ —"

"Make an effort? Because throwing money at him is making an effort?"

"That's not what I meant. You could just as easily call him and get a drink—"

"I don't even have his number, and I've changed mine - and, like, is this even any of your business?" He sits up, holding the iPad at his knees. "He's my mate and if I want to see him or not is my choice. Don't tell me what to do, Perrie," Zayn ends. His voice is raised and he's near shaking. He hates arguing, hates feeling like he has to defend himself to anyone, but about this? About Harry to Perrie, these two people he's kept so carefully apart? It twists at his insides and he doesn't like it at all.

She's breathing heavily through her nose and her lips are this thin line. He knows he's gone too far. They've never fought like this.

"I'm tired, you're tired, so I'm going to just leave this. I'll talk to you soon, yeah?" she says, and then she's gone, the screen blanking down to nothing. Zayn flings himself backwards. The iPad slides somewhere as his heels thump on the mattress and his fists clench at his sides.

He replays over and over in his head what was said, and all the possible outcomes of any contact with Harry now. Because, yeah, he could ring Harry. He _does_ have his number - Niall put it in Zayn's phone a while ago. He could ring Harry, but if Harry even answered it would be a miracle. He might, and then Zayn would have to make idle conversation because it would have to be weird between them. A year and more of no communication between them would do that. But maybe it would be all right. Maybe they'd get past that and arrange to meet up for lunch or something. Maybe Zayn would get his heart torn up again when Harry would bring Louis to meet him, because he would. They'd make their goodbyes and Zayn would be alone as Harry walked off into the veritable sunset with his arm around Louis' waist and Louis’ head on Harry's shoulder.

No. He couldn't go anywhere near the possibility of seeing Harry. Not now. He'd just have to apologise to Perrie later, blame it on being tired or whatnot.

If he dreams about green eyes and dark curls and soft lashes on his cheek . . . no one has to know.

{ .. }

Summer in Australia is something else. When he arrives at the Gold Coast, just walking out of the airport feels like he's stepping through an invisible fog of wet heat. Leaving the air conditioned comfort of his hotel room is pure hell when he has to head over to the Parklands. It's even worse there, with the press of people packed in like sardines. Even his little corner of the world backstage provides no relief.

The fact that this has been Harry's home ground for more than a year now isn't a factor in his choosing to stay at the hotel until the last minute. Harry would have to know Zayn is here; this is one of Australia's largest summer festivals and Zayn's been on a few local radio stations promoting it and the other bands over the past few months. He ignores his mother’s texts when she mentions Harry's not coming home until February, that he's seeing out one last Australian summer. He can't think about Harry being so close and yet so utterly, utterly out of his reach. Even if he hasn't spoken or heard from Perrie since they argued two nights before.

It doesn't matter. Zayn's a professional. He came here to perform and that's what he'll do.

He doesn't pay too much attention to the audience when he sings. Wears these stupid frames that, even though they're clear, help him feel a little sheltered from the sea of faces in front of him.

He doesn't say anything when he performs the new song again. Doesn't interact with the crowd that much at all, which he knows he'll get flayed about when he gets home but he can pretend it's jet lag or something. Even though it can't be since he flew in from New Zealand the day before. 

The one moment he _does_ look at the faces singing back at him, of course it's Harry that his mind conjures up. That face he would know anywhere, lit up by a rainbow of light from the stage behind Zayn. A smile he's kissed and felt pressed into the curve of his hip and the soft round of his belly at one time or another. Zayn fumbles words, blinks and looks back, and what he thought was Harry wrapped around Louis, shirtless and with his stupid long hair held back by a scarf, is gone.

He probably wasn't there at all.

Still, it spooks Zayn enough that he does something he hasn't since the first time he opened his mouth and sang in front of four judges years ago. He closes his eyes for the rest of the set, pretends that it's not Harry he sees lit up behind his eyelids. Pretends that half these songs weren't written with Harry in mind. Pretends that his heart doesn't crave Harry as much as it does.

{ .. }

 

He's been in Melbourne for three days when he runs into Niall.

Literally.

He's coming out of this pub that some of the Australian crew have dragged him to, along with a couple of others from his band, when this blond lad in a snapback walks in as Zayn's walking out. Zayn apologises, wondering if he was right to send Max back to he hotel earlier with a migraine. He didn't feel like he needed _that_ much security considering it was a few drinks then back to his makeshift home for the week. There's a hand on his shoulder and he hears a distinctly Irish voice calling him a cunt before he lifts his head. He's contemplating giving this tosser a bit of lip and damn the consequences when he realises he's being pulled in closer.

"You cunt-fecking bastard! What's the Craic?" 

Zayn starts laughing as he gets an arm around Niall's shoulder, hugging him tight. "Nialler! What are you even doing here?"

Niall pats at Zayn’s back. He smells like a lot of booze and sweat, but he also feels like a piece of home. A bit of "before" when things weren't as different as they are now. 

"Here for me cousin’s weddin', just got in yesterday," he says, and Zayn can hear the smile in his voice before he adds quietly, "Missed you."

Zayn nods, presses his face into Niall's shoulder. It has been a while. 

"Where ya headed?" Niall asks as he moves back, and Zayn gets a better look at his mate’s face. The usual ever-present, effervescent grin is there, but most of his blond hair is hidden under a familiar Packers SnapBack that Zayn knows Harry bought him for his birthday two years back. Not that Niall was a fan, but Harry was, so it was more a gift for him than for Niall himself. _"If you have to wear those things, Niall, at least make it something I don't mind looking at."_

"Hotel, actually, have three radio interviews early tomorrow," Zayn says, a little sad because it's getting late and he promised Sarah he wouldn't get into any trouble while he was down here. Not that he'll go looking for it, mind, but heading out on the lash with Niall and his family . . . Well, Zayn actually _can't_ remember the last time he did that. Can't, because he literally lost those hours from his memory, they'd got _that_ drunk. And Sarah had said to be in the hotel at a respectable time. Asleep by ten.

There's no way that'll happen if he heads out with Niall.

But . . . Niall's giving him these big blue eyes and a pout that Zayn can already feel himself about to cave into. "Zayn," he whines, just as this lad nearly tackles Niall, jumping up on his back. There's a lot of fast, heavy Irish spoken by him and the other lad, who looks a lot like Niall but with darker features. He's possibly what Niall would actually look like if he ever stopped bleaching his hair.

"Deo says you’re a fucking pussy if you leave now. The night is still young, my friend!" Niall shifts the weight of Deo on his back, his eyes already lit up like he knows what Zayn's answer will be.

"C'mon, let us show you a proper good time in me home town," Deo says, with a slight Aussie twang mixed in amongst his Irish drawl. 

Zayn tilts his head and scrunches up his nose like he's considering it, even though he already knows he's going with them. He needs something like what they're offering. Something to stop the flashes of a dimpled smile and green eyes dancing behind his eyelids every time they flutter closed. 

"One drink, mate," Niall says.

Deo looks at him with the same sad eyes and pout. It must be a family trait. "For me weddin'." 

"For his _weddin',_ Zayn," Niall almost pleads.

Zayn makes a great show of sighing before he answers. "One drink," Zayn says, and Niall nearly drops Deo as he jumps up, fist pumping in the air. 

"Pub crawl!" Deo and Niall shout in unison, singing that awful drinking song made famous from Eurovision back in the ‘nineties. Zayn tries to reinforce that it's just _one_ drink at _one_ pub, but the sounds of "he drinks a whiskey drink! He drinks a vodka drink, he drinks a lager drink, he drinks a cider drink" are being sung far too loudly. 

Knowing Zayn's luck, they'll make him drink them all. At every pub until the sun comes up or they're thrown out. 

{ .. }

They're at the third or maybe fifth bar when someone mentions Harry's name. 

Of course Niall's cousins know him. Of course they're going to ask, because the last time they were all together in London Zayn had let them all kip in his flat and Harry'd got handsy toward the end of the night. _That_ , Zayn can remember. 

Zayn pays more attention to his drink than to the conversation going on around him. Peels the label off his beer slowly, like it's the most important thing in the world, instead of listening about how happy Harry is with his boyfriend Louis. How Harry's going back to a job at a little law firm in London and a friend of Robin's is putting him on the payroll, a shit-kicker position but a job all the same.

That he and Louis have a flat together not three doors down from the school Louis will be teaching at. That it's so _nice_ that Harry has someone who seems to treat him well. Such a good lad he is. Top bloke. Deserves all the good things.

Zayn barely makes it away from the table and out into the alley behind the club before he throws up.

His hands shake so hard that he drops three cigarettes onto the ground before he finally gets one to his lips. He's having no luck at all with his lighter. He shakes it and shakes it, but he must have forgotten to refill it and of course it's fucking empty now. His thumb caresses over the well-worn indents where Harry had "rockstar" engraved, and it just reminds him of how things were, how his heart feels as empty as the cylinder inside and it's just not _fair_.

He throws it at the opposite wall with a grunt, hears it bounce off with a metallic thunk, and leans back against the brick wall.

"Feel any better?"

Zayn closes his eyes but can still feel where Niall shifts in, leans against the wall beside him.

"Yes," he snaps, his voice tight, and it hurts, because it doesn’t and Niall's the only person who really knows and Zayn's so _tired_ of pretending.

"Does he . . . Does he even ask?" Zayn starts, words getting caught in the ache that's formed at the back of his throat. His chest is so tight he wraps his arms around himself, feeling like he's on the verge of coming unstuck.

Niall is quiet beside him. So quiet that Zayn thinks maybe he can just walk back into the pub and forget he even mentioned anything to Niall at all.

Maybe he's asked too much.

Zayn was never sure about the friendship he had with Niall. He began as Harry's flatmate and then they'd hang out but never really without Harry. Then when everything had gone tits-up, he hadn’t expected to hear from Niall anymore. It had hurt a little - Zayn wasn't one to make friends easily - but he should have known Niall was different. A month after Zayn had seen Harry last, Niall was at his door with beer and pizza and _The Godfather_ trilogy. 

They'd not talked about Harry the whole weekend Zayn blessedly had off. Not until Zayn was walking Niall out the door. "He hasn't said anything and you obviously don't want to talk now, and I think you’re both idiots, but if you need an ear I can lend you mine, whenever. That's what mates are for, innit?" was all he'd said, with a sad sort of smile as he hugged Zayn one last time before setting off, whistling one of Zayn’s early songs as he walked to his car.

They'd talked a bit after that, their usual texts and phone calls and drinks when Zayn was home. 

Zayn hadn't introduced him to Perrie. 

Niall never asked, either. It was as if that part of his life and Niall's contact with Harry were subjects off the table for any type of discussion.

Which, of course, makes what Niall says to him next hurt that much more.

"You really fucked him over, you know? He kept telling me he was fine. That he was happy with what you could give. Think he really convinced himself of that for a while." Niall pauses and Zayn feels like his insides are being carved out with every word. "Then he got the go-ahead to come down here, and Christ, it couldn't have come at a better time because you were being a right arse and he was angry all the time and wouldn't tell me why."

"Did you know?" Zayn asks, his voice barely rising above a whisper, his throat hoarse with how difficult it is to hear this, how hard it is to hold back how much it stings.

"About the uni exchange? No. He kept that quiet. Didn't think he had a chance of getting in, but he's always been better at his law stuff than he let on. Still got great marks even after you kept playing your stupid games with him," Niall says sharply, and Zayn feels it cut like a knife.

"I didn't . . . It wasn't just me, y'know." Zayn rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "He never said he wanted more and I never wanted to drag him into all of this, especially when it started to get stupid—"

Niall interrupts with a laugh. "Stupid? You're the one who’s stupid. He never _said_ anything because he thought you _did_ have something! You were round ours whenever you were home or you'd drag Harry to London and you two were always on the phone or bloody going at it on the sofa!" 

Zayn's hands drop to his sides as he turns to face Niall. "But we we're mates, though. Of course I spent time with him."

Niall stares at him, his blue eyes wide, incredulous. "Mates don't fuck the way you two did. Mates don't look at each other the way you did, and mates definitely don't use each other the way you did him."

Zayn says nothing. There's nothing he can say. He could argue about this, but the thing is he knows he did it. He can kid himself that he didn't know that Harry wanted more or that he even wanted it himself - but he did. He wanted everything. _Everything_. 

"I . . ." His voice trembles over one word and Zayn feels like he's crumbling from within. He's had too much to drink and there's too much _Harry_ here, even though Harry isn't actually here at all. But it's in the thoughts Zayns been having, it's in the discussion from others. It's in the little that Niall's said alone.

Niall sighs, puts a hand on Zayn's shoulder. "Zayn, you know I've tried to stay out of this. You two were mates long before I even knew Harry and I'd like to think you're my friend, too, but you can't just go around doing what you did, what you both did, and thinking neither of you are going to get hurt by it."

Zayn blinks fast, the lump in his throat growing, and _fuck_ he doesn't want to cry about this. Has done that enough. Zayn leans back against the wall and feels the warm weight of Niall at his side as he presses up against him. 

"I didn't want him to get hurt," Zayn says, soft as a whisper. "That was the whole reason behind all of it, I just didn't want him to get hurt. The press, the fans . . . there's no way he could have lived normally with me. I didn't want him hurt." 

"But you hurt him anyway."

Zayn takes in a shaky breath and wraps his arms around his chest because this feels worse than before. It's like all of Niall's words have torn at the stitches that Zayn had holding him together, and everything is falling apart. All the lies Zayn told himself about how Harry was better off - how _he_ was better off - are just that, lies. He wasn't. Isn't. And Harry hasn't been, either.

"I fucked this up, didn't I?" Zayn says. His head thumps back against the wall and he lets his lashes flutter closed. 

"Yeah," Niall says, "you did."

They stay silent as Zayn lets a few tears roll down his cheeks. Here, in an alley in fucking Melbourne of all places, he's still crying over Harry. Over what he could have had if he just threw caution to the wind and _went_ for it. It's stupid and he's done enough of this at home or in the quiet over the past few years, but this feels different. This is actually admitting it to someone else and seeing that it affected Harry just as much. A siren roars past in the street to their left and it breaks the quiet. Stops Zayn from rehashing his past.

Zayn takes a deep breath and scrubs at his cheeks with the back of one hand. They should go in. They've been out here for a while and Zayn isn't sure he can handle anything more from Niall tonight. He's thinking about offering to buy the next round when Niall starts talking again.

"I heard a shitty version of the new song you've added to your set, and it's all there. You break your fecking heart on that, mate," Niall says, and it's not anything that Zayn was expecting.

He shrugs. "They told me to write what I know, so . . ." Writing that song had nearly torn him apart. Nearly killed his insides, too, with how much whiskey and weed he'd drunk and smoked once it was done. 

Niall huffs. "So fecking _stupid_ ," he says softly, before turning on his side. "He sent me it, Harry did, recorded it at your set up north. Asked me what I thought and added a bunch of those dumb broken-heart emojis he's so bloody fond of."

Harry had been there. It wasn't just Zayn's imagination. It lights Zayn up for a moment, only to have him come crashing back down because Harry was there and Louis was, too. They'd been so close and Harry hadn't said or done anything either. There really was nothing left between them at all. It hits Zayn like a cold blast and any warmth left in his body is now gone.

"I didn't . . . I thought I saw him," Zayn clears his throat, "and Louis."

Niall nods. "Yeah, but it's never really Louis he wants to talk about when he calls. Even when he rang this morning and asked me again about the song. Wanted to know if I thought that was how you really felt."

"It was. It is." 

"Did you even think about using his number that I put in your phone? Did you even think about _talking_ to him instead of putting it all there in a bloody song?" Niall sounds irritated now, and Zayn can sort of understand why. Niall doesn't beat around the bush with anything in his life. Probably why he gets so annoyed with what Zayn and Harry have always done. Did.

"He never called me either," Zayn says, and he can recognise the petulance in his own voice. Knows he's pouting.

"Christ, you're as bad as he is," Niall says, rubbing a hand under his snapback through his hair.

"I don't think he wants to talk to me anymore," Zayn adds, scooting down a bit so more of his back is against the wall. It's probably filthy but it feels like there's this weight pressing down from above and his whole body feels empty, numb, after all these confessions. After all of these home truths that Zayn's basically avoided for too long.

"He asked me about your bloody song, Zayn. One that is so obviously written about him, even if you don't say his name. C'mon, what do you think that means?"

Zayn shrugs, doesn't want to think about it. He hasn't had any hope when it comes to him and Harry maintaining anything since he walked out on Harry over a year ago. He can't think about it. He can't think about a possibility where Harry and he might have something again . . . because friendship just wouldn't be enough. Harry, who'd been his friend forever. Had been with him through this stupid fame thing from the very start.

He could have had it all and he just . . . threw it away without a thought.

He's been so fucking _dumb_.

It's enough to jog his memory of what happened earlier tonight. He starts forward, gets out his phone and slides the flashlight on. If he can't have all of Harry, he deserves to have just this tiny part.

"What are you doing?" Niall calls from behind him and Zayn bends over, looking for a flash of silver in the dark.

"My lighter, I . . . I dropped it before."

"A lighter? Jesus, Zayn, I don't think it's worth looking for out here. I think they even sell them inside." Niall stops as Zayn looks up at him where he's now kneeling beside this pile of boxes and garbage, and whatever's on his face must jog Niall's memory. He knows who gave him that lighter. Knows it's not just some throwaway plastic thing. Knows its worth.

"Ahh, feck," Niall says with a laugh. "Think I could get big money for this? Helping bloody Zayn Malik sift through garbage outside a bloody pub at four in the morning?"

Four? Sarah's going to have a bloody field day and he's going to have to down at least three coffees if not cans of Red Bull in the next few hours. His first radio show is at eight.

It doesn't matter. None of it. Not until he's got that little piece of Harry in his hands. Something to hold onto.

Harry heard his song.

"Shut up and help me look," Zayn says, a tiny smile forming on his lips as Niall's laughter echoes in the alley.

It feels a little like hope.

{ .. }

 

Sweat streams down his face as he shifts around front of stage. He thought the set in Queensland was bad, but this is ridiculous. Melbourne's going through a heat wave. They've got misters and guys in front of the barrier spraying the crowd, but Zayn's sweltering under the lights and in the more closed-off part of the tent. He got rid of his shirt halfway through his first song and is thankful he wore his long shorts today, even if they hang so low on his hips that if he makes one wrong move he'll be in nothing but his pants. He's drunk four bottles of water and spilled another three over his head but nothing helps. It's the longest hour he's ever played and he's just _wishing_ for it to be over so he can get back to the hotel and its pool. Even if it's heated, it's got to be better than this.

"There's this new song I've been tinkering with for a while now. Thought I might try it out on you if you don't mind, yeah?" he asks, wiping at his face with his shirt, which really does nothing more than move the sweat around and brings little reprieve. He drops it back on in front of the drum kit where they've lined up water bottles for him, grabs one and drinks about half of it in one go before tipping the rest over his head. The crowd get loud and Zayn smiles. It's the same reaction he's had before, everyone clamoring for something that's like an exclusive. 

He turns back to the crowd, gets one of the lads with the water guns to spray his chest and face, and it's a bit better. Even if he feels a little bit deaf from the screams. He doesn't really mind. This is what he loves, what he gets up early for. 

"Now it still has no name, so the challenge for you lot is to tweet your thoughts at me. Might even have to thank you in the notes if I like it enough to use!" The crowd get loud again but Zayn's already nodding his head, waiting for Jon to kick in with the first few notes from the piano. He closes his eyes and begins to sing.

They surprise him this time, most of the crowd jumping in with words and phrases before he even gets to the chorus. Maybe Sarah was right: this is the best place to debut a few new things, work out some kinks before going into the final mixing session when he gets back in March, taking a bit of time off in February to do nothing. Well, not nothing. He's supposed to be sorting out a holiday for him and Perrie. 

He hasn't even researched a place for them to go, let alone a hotel room.

He gets to the end and sings two more hits from the first album and turns to leave the stage with the crowd roaring behind him. He nearly stops, though, ready to walk back out and maybe beg Bliss and Eso to let him sit in, when he sees who's standing beside Niall.

He'd given Niall two backstage passes for the day, one for him and one for Willie, because Deo was too busy with wedding stuff. It's not Willie, though, who’s biting at his lip, damp curls pulled back under one of those stupid scarves Zayn's seen on Instagram photos. It's _still_ not Willie when Max gives him a towel to wipe at his face and the stagehands are ducking out, shifting the set. 

"You were fecking on fire out there!" Niall says, jumping up into Zayn's face and pulling him down into a hug. Zayn can't speak. Can't stop looking at where Harry is now gazing back at him shyly, green eyes nearly hidden by dark lashes. 

Zayn can't breathe.

"Even Harry thought so. Tell him - tell him how good that was!" Niall says, and he's still bouncing around as he lets Zayn go. He's singing bits from a song on Zayn's second album and Zayn can't _breathe_.

"Where's Willie?" Zayn finally asks as they step to the side and start heading out behind the tent and toward the little part of backstage where Zayn has his camp set up.

"Couldn't make it," Harry answers, and Zayn nods jerkily, can't . . . he can't catch a breath to answer. Niall's dancing somewhere behind him with Harry following, probably, but Zayn doesn't know. Can't look. Can only focus on getting away as fast as possible. Harry's not meant to be here. He's not supposed to be anywhere near Zayn at all. 

He gets into his dressing room and grabs for a beer that's sitting in the cooler, noting that bloody Alex has been in here already and stolen the Stellas. Arse. His hand is shaking as he drinks and he closes his eyes because Harry's right there, looking all sorts of awkward with his right arm across his stomach, hand clasped around his left elbow, fingertips tapping on his bloody jean shorts. Jean shorts. Who _wears_ those things? People who can't be bothered to do up their bloody shirt either, what with how Harry's missing about five of the buttons on the red plaid button-down he's also ripped the arms off of. Which explains the matching scarf around his head and fuck. _Fuck_. Zayn is not prepared for this at all.

"Poor bastard, missing out on all the craic because he can't say no to his girl Janey!" Niall says, with a look to Zayn as he picks up two bottles and with Zayn's shrug, offers one to Harry. Harry takes it, his eyes flicking up to Zayn for a second, and Zayn can't deal with that. Can't have Harry just _looking_ at him for approval or whatever.

He turns his back on them both instead, grabs at a spare vest that someone on his team remembered to bring along. He shrugs it on, slides his sunglasses up onto his head, and takes a deep breath. It doesn't help. His heart is still racing as he turns back around, focuses more on anything _but_ the two lads in front of him. 

"Um, I sort of have plans, like, I promised to be somewhere?" he starts, and this isn't rocket science, it's just talking, but right now after all the silence between them and then Niall saying what he did outside the pub it's making everything so much harder. Why is Harry here? Like, yeah, Zayn’s fine with him having the backstage pass and all, he has a few for every show they're doing, but this is just - this is _Harry_ and he's _here_. Zayn could reach out and touch him.

If he wanted.

He doesn't. He _doesn't._

His fingers twitch at his sides so he curls them into fists instead.

Niall grabs at the bag of crisps on the table with the other stuff from Zayn's rider. He hasn't much. Some fruit, the jellybeans Max likes and a bunch of little weird things the band added on. They're all packing up their instruments and should be along shortly. Everyone has somewhere to be and so does Zayn.

"That's all right, mate, just thought we'd pop in like. We're 'bout to head over to watch Arctic Monkeys. Harry's a right fan, aren't ya?" Niall shoves in another mouthful of crisps, sharp blue eyes shifting between where Zayn's hovering near the door and Harry's still nursing his beer.

"New albums, great," Harry says, clearing his throat. This whole thing has Zayn on edge and he doesn't know what to do or say or how to act. Harry's doing that thing with his lips, pulling his teeth over the bottom one over and over that Zayn knows is one of his nervous tics. 

Good. He should be as nervous as Zayn feels. Fucking Niall. He probably orchestrated this whole thing. Zayn should never have said anything to him. He should have kept his mouth shut and just played this festival out and then gone home and apologised to Perrie. He was fine with the way things were. Absolutely fine. 

"Hey, Malik." Stewart, who does _something_ for Alex's band, appears at the door. "Alex said hurry your arse up, he wants you on stage for the thing, said you'd know what it was."

"Alex, as in Alex Turner of The Arctic Monkeys, Alex?" Harry asks, awe echoing in his tone.

Zayn shrugs like it's no big deal, even though he was bricking it when he met Alex while he was recording in LA. Alex had apparently been "in the area" and popped in for a chat. "Us Northern boys gots to stick together, innit?" He'd caught Zayn's set at Lollapalooza and a gig in Manchester when Zayn was just starting out. That had nearly done Zayn in, Alex being a bloody fan of all things, but he'd managed to stay cool. Sort of. Then it was drinks at Alex's house and they'd hung out a bit while Zayn was in town and he'd returned the hospitality when Alex and the lads were back in London. Zayn wouldn't call them close mates, but they did text and chat every now and then.

"Do you wanna, like, come with?"

Harry's eyes go wide and Niall sputters on his beer, froth making an arc in front of him that Zayn just jumps out of the road of. 

Fuck, he hadn't meant to say that. He doesn't want Harry around - well, he does, but then it sort of feels weird. Fuck, now he's invited them to _come_. It's not like he isn't nervous enough about this. Sure, he's fucked around and sung with the band a bit while they were in Auckland and Cookie's played guitar on one of the songs on the new album Zayn's nearly done with but. This is different. This is Alex saying "come and mix some of those high notes in with ours, mate, it'll be brilliant!" and Zayn somewhere along his fifth beer or third spliff agreeing. 

Singing in front of forty thousand strangers he can cope with. Even Niall and Deo could have been fine, but this is Harry and it means _more_.

"Um, _no_ , we'd much rather make our way through the crowd of sweaty punters and hope to catch a glimpse of you up there, mate," Niall says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "What do you bloody think?" 

In for a penny, in for a pound. 

Zayn slides his sunglasses on - at least he can hide his eyes like this - and nods at the door. "C'mon, then."

{ .. }

He stands beside Niall when they're side of stage, all three of them nodding their heads and shifting about to the beat. When Alex calls for him to come on, Niall claps a hand on his back and Zayn resolutely doesn't look in Harry's direction. 

_Do I wanna know, if this feeling flows both ways._

He sings the parts they've practiced, gets a fucking high from it because this is the _main stage_ and Zayn can't even see the ground for the people. He doesn't look to the side while he sings. Focuses on keeping the energy forward, interacting with the lads and adding the ridiculous high notes he's so famous for.

_That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day._

He feels mostly at ease on stage - it's like a second home to him now - but there's this underlying tension now he knows Harry is actually _here_ hearing him sing. Standing within touching distance, while Zayn sings words that aren't his but feel like it all the same.

_Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new._

He'd be lying if he didn't agree to this song in particular because of the lyrics. It's not a sexy song, really, but it's a truth Zayn hasn't let himself admit in a long time. It's something he hides from Perrie. Something he hid from himself until he was alone in the dark and this track always came to mind. Always played until he didn't need the music to remember the lyrics at all.

_Been wondering if your heart's still open and if so I wanna know what time it shuts._

Zayn's trying so hard not to look to his left, not to see who he really wants to be singing this to, but he can only handle it for so long. It's as if he can feel Harry's eyes on him the entire time, feel the weight of his gaze as he chimes in line after line and then he can't stop, it's like his head turns without permission. His eyes finding the green gaze of Harry's own and the words only seem to make it worse.

_"Too busy being yours to fall."_

Harry doesn't look away.

{ .. }

They've been back at the hotel for a good few hours, having commandeered two out of the four suites Alex and the lads are occupying. Niall's still chatting with a small group of people who tagged along since the band finished their set, and they'd all gone to raid Arctic Monkey's rider backstage. After a few more drinks (and most of Zayn's stolen Stellas) it was decided to carry on back at the hotel. Which Zayn didn't mind. He had no other place to be, but it was awkward.

Well, maybe not awkward, more tension-filled with the fact that he hasn't been able to stop sneaking glances at Harry. 

The same way he catches Harry doing the very same thing. Green eyes going wide before they duck away, the apples of his cheeks turning pink. Then he'd bite his lip and Zayn could see the shine from wherever he was in the room. 

Harry's attention is still something that Zayn craves. He can feel where Harry is in the room, a buzz beneath his skin that a thousand bees can't even replicate. The invisible link between them only gets stronger with each second they're in each others presence. Even more so since Harry is now actually in touching distance. It's _all_ that Zayn wants to do. 

He wants to kiss the skin behind Harry's ear, just under his jaw, that never fails to make a hitch form in Harry's breath. When Harry lifts a bottle to his lips, it's those same lips around Zayn's cock that he pictures. Harry's lashes fanning across his cheeks as he sucks Zayn down, humming as Zayn's fingers grip harder into his curls. When Harry nervously pinches at his bottom lip, Zayn remembers all the _other_ things Harry can do with his fingers. How good they always felt on Zayn's skin. 

He _wants_ so much.

Yet he can't even get himself to say more than the "Jack and Coke, ta," when Harry asks if he wants anything from the makeshift bar the lads set up when they arrived.

Ridiculous, really, because he has a _thousand_ things he wants to know.

Why is Harry here, now? Does his boyfriend know? Does he know about _who_ he's at a party with? That Zayn is his ex best friend? Ex . . . whatever it is they had been? Does he know how sorry Zayn is? How much Zayn hates himself for the way it all fell apart? How much Zayn misses his friend, his _best_ friend, because that's the part of ending all of it that hurts the most?

"And then he said," Niall is laughing so hard his eyes are nearly screwed shut, "then he said, _shit_ , what did he say?" He slaps at Zayn's back so hard Zayn actually shifts forward with the force of it. 

"No idea," he answers honestly, because he's not paid any attention to Niall for a while. Zayn spills some of his Jack and Coke that he's been nursing since they walked in, and forces a smile as he walks away. 

He heads toward the balcony, leaving his glass on a table before making it to the warm night air outside. He lights up a smoke when he's finally alone, fingertips shaking worse than usual as he leans up against the rails, his eyes finding Harry inside. He's sitting on one of the arm chairs, a smile on his face as he speaks more with his hands, his arms flailing everywhere. There was a time when Zayn would have known what he was talking about merely from watching. 

He can't even hazard a guess now.

Zayn takes in a deep drag and lets it out as he turns his back on the room, looking out over Melbourne's centre instead.

This isn't a good line of thought to let his mind wander into.

Yet when he turns back - because he has to turn back - his skin feels too tight over his bones from _knowing_ Harry is so close. Harry has his bloody shirt pulled up showing that stupid moth tattoo on his belly, and _fuck_. Zayn squeezes his eyes shut. A stupid move, though. Behind his eyelids Harry is laid out on those pale blue sheets he always had on his bed back in Leeds. Zayn kneeling between his thighs, wanking himself off at just the _look_ of a freshly ravished Harry. When he opens them again, Harry's laughing, his cheeks flushed with how much alcohol he's consumed. A blink, and Zayn's coming in thick ropes of white over Harry's stomach and chest and running his fingers through the mess, painting that stupid ink with something a little less permanent of his own. He always liked marking Harry up. The same way Harry had returned the sentiment, but in less obvious places.

Thumbprints on Zayn's hipbones. Lovebites darkening the sensitive skin of Zayn's inner thighs. A bite mark on Zayn's left bum cheek once, that Zayn felt for nearly a week afterwards. A fuck so hard against a wall outside their mate’s place when they were young and stupid that Zayn pulled a muscle in his thigh. It left him limping and having to fob it off as "sports related" when his mother asked.

Zayn didn't even _do_ P.E. at that stage.

They have so much history, so _much_ that's gone on between them and then nothing for so long that this _something_ feels like too much. Makes Zayn _want_ too much. Makes him wonder if he could have it all again. Could have _more_.

There's a shout from inside, and Zayn focuses on what he can now see. Harry has a piece of lemon between his fingers and shots are being done at the little table Harry and three others are sitting around. They've obviously just finished one, Harry's ruby red lips smacking together. His tongue slides out, licking the shiny path of juice from his wrist up. Zayn swallows a groan and readjusts himself in his shorts. He shouldn't find this as sexy as he does. He hasn't let himself think about Harry like this in so long.

Hasn't let himself admit that he does when he's alone, at any rate.

Harry looks up as he gets to his thumb. Their eyes lock, even through the glass that separates them, and Zayn knows Harry's found him. When Harry sucks his thumb between his lips, eyes never leaving Zayn's, he feels it right down to the tips of his toes, dick twitching in his pants. This isn't fair at all. They've not spoken more than a handful of words, and it's probably both their doing, but this? This has Zayn wanting to know more than he should.

Does Harry want like Zayn does? Does he see the same innocent moves turn sexual purely because _that_ had always been the best of them? The way they could get each other started with a look and few words, ducking out of pubs and parties because they'd got each other so riled up they couldn't _wait_ to get to a bed? Any flat surface, vertical or horizontal, would do.

He needs to get out of here, away from Harry and their past and the future that they don't have anymore. Never really did, because Zayn kept pushing it away. He needs to stop thinking about all the different ways he's tasted Harry's skin and how it feels to press his lips to Harry's, what it might feel like again. 

This isn't going to work at all. He needs to leave. Even if Harry is here, even if Harry's here and not miles away, he still isn't Zayn's to wonder about. And Zayn isn't his anymore, either. The thought alone hits him like a bucket of ice water and - enough. 

Enough.

It's easy to find Alex and make excuses for leaving. It's not that he _has_ any plans for the next day, but they've all got shit to do during their downtime while travelling so it's not that big of a lie to believe in. He ducks out of the room while Harry and Niall are in the middle of telling some story that involves a lot of laughter and he pounds on the elevator button, jittery that he's going to get caught. That Harry might come out and they'll finally talk like they've been avoiding since he saw Harry at side stage hours earlier. Say the things that need to be said after so many, _many_ months of silence.

Zayn isn't sure he's ready for that.

So he's running. It's what he does best, after all.

{ .. }

Zayn's just heating up the kettle for a brew when he hears a knock at the door. He called down to the kitchen before to get some honey sent up. His throat is a little raw and he has strict instructions from his vocal coach to take as much care of it as he can between sets. He's still feeling out of sorts with the events of the day, which is why he opens the bloody thing without even checking who could be outside. There has been an issue with some fans gaining access to musicians’ room numbers, but Zayn's not thinking about that right now.

When he opens the door it's with an apology on his lips for making them bring a few of those squirty plastic things of honey. The words just die away, though, when he sees who's actually there.

He's got his mouth open and hand raised as if he's going to knock again. He says nothing and Zayn can only blink. Harry.

Harry's here.

Zayn should say something. Harry's _here_ , at his door, and they're alone. He should say _something_ , but he doesn't. He doesn't have time to, because Harry's stepping forward. He's got his hands on either side of Zayn's face and he's kissing him like they never stopped.

Zayn steps back and back and the door closes behind them as he gets his hands on Harry's hips. It's like he never knew how cold his body truly was until Harry touched him again and everything is burning hotter than the sun. It feels so right, so good, and the way he kisses is the same as before, but different. It's more urgent, a little on the side of too rough, but Zayn doesn't care. Nothing's felt this right in so long. Nothing's felt this _easy_ , and Zayn doesn't want to stop. Can't.

Harry's got his eyes wide open now that they're inside. He's looking at Zayn as if he's drinking him in. The perfect green that Zayn has seen in so many places, imagined so many times is _right_ there in front of him and now he realises _nothing_ matches it at all. They kiss and kiss until Harry finally pulls back, leaving both of them panting and Zayn holding on tight at Harry's waist. If he lets go, Harry might just disappear. Or worse, he might stay. Maybe he'll want to talk, and they don't _do_ that. They haven't exchanged proper words for so long that Zayn isn't sure what they'd even start to talk about. Definitely not whatever this is or whatever they'd had in the before. Never the fact that they'd been fucking around for years, on and off since they were fifteen, and it hadn't been a something. Never had a proper chance of being anything with how Zayn had pushed Harry away. 

It's worse when Harry's hands slide down either side of his neck, over Zayn’s chest. He tugs at Zayn's vest until he's pulling it up and over Zayn's head. One of Harry's hands cups the back of Zayn's head as he brings him in close. Zayn has to tilt his head up a little, which is different but so familiar he doesn't waste much time thinking about it at all. Harry's tongue slides against Zayn's in a push and pull that makes Zayn forget to breathe. It's even worse when Harry pushes Zayn's shorts down. He struggles a little, he's only using one hand, then Harry drops to the floor with a groan. His hands feel like a brand as they trace up the outside of Zayn's calves and thighs until he tugs the material down, bringing Zayn's pants along with it. 

There are questions and words waiting behind Zayn's teeth, things he wants to say but he can't. He feels like if he does it'll break whatever this is between them now. Instead he breathes in and out, lets Harry take his fill from touch alone. He reaches down to tug at Harry's arm once Harry gets settled on his haunches, his eyes big and dark as he looks up at Zayn. He licks his lips and Zayn's lashes flutter, his hips stuttering forward from a look alone.

Harry stands willingly, kisses Zayn again hard and fast as Zayn steps between Harry's thighs. Harry closes his eyes as Zayn gets each button of his shirt undone, his lips brushing sun-burnished skin at each reveal. He's so warm, so _tan_ , and Zayn wants to see it all, feel it all. He pushes the material from Harry's broad shoulders when he's done, still staring at the way Harry's chest shifts in and out, the way the muscles of his stomach contract when Zayn runs the knuckle of one finger from his belly button down the dark trail of hair leading under Harrys' shorts. When Zayn looks up, swallowing hard, Harry's got his eyes closed and his mouth is barely open as he breathes in these sharp punches of air. 

He's exactly how Zayn remembers him, but more. More ink on the outside of his arm, a rose, an anchor covering words that Zayn once had memorised. He strips Harry in the same way Harry rid Zayn of all his clothes, each gentle touch lingering longer and longer as bronzed skin comes into view. He traces a fingertip over the outline of the moth on Harry’s stomach, up and over the swirling lines of the birds on his chest. The sharp curve of his jaw and behind his ear, into a tangle of curls, _finally_ pulling that stupid scarf off Harry's head.

It should be weird that they've not spoken. It should be strange that the first thing they did when Zayn opened the door was to kiss like it had been mere days since the last time they had. It shouldn't be this easy to fall back into patterns that worked for them long before.

But it is. It is.

Zayn tilts Harry's face up and Harry blinks once, twice, and then stares straight at Zayn. There's something there, some depth that Zayn can't reach, and then they're kissing. It's nothing but the slow, slick passing of their lips until Harry's hand grabs at Zayn's waist and drags him in closer. Zayn fits himself in close and rocks up against Harry, his dick taking an active interest once there's pressure from Harry's side of things. Harry's hand slides down over Zayn's bum and pulls him in and Zayn can't get enough. He wants to touch Harry _everywhere._

Zayn's lips leave Harry's mouth and survey the line of his jaw until he's dipping down under Harry's ear. He sucks hard, hopes he leaves a mark, and Harry's hand tightens its grip, fingertips between the crack of Zayn's bum, pulling and tugging and they _need_ to take this to the bed. Standing up and rubbing against each other just isn't enough.

"Harry," Zayn says, his voice a little above a whisper, "I want . . ." He doesn't know where to start. He wants to touch and be touched. To kiss and to be kissed. To take and take and be taken all at the same time. He wants everything and he isn't sure where to start.

"Bed," Harry says, and Zayn follows, mouthing at Harry's shoulder, the curve and dip of his collarbone.

Harry takes a step back first, shimmying his way up to the top of the bed. Zayn watches, just takes in all of Harry as Harry slides a hand over his chest, wraps a loose fist around his cock and strokes. Green eyes are focused on Zayn's and he's ever so glad Harry switched the lamp on when he got on the bed. It casts Harry in this soft light and he looks beautiful. Zayn wants to devour him whole.

"Fuck," Zayn says, mostly to himself as he knee-walks his way up the bed, crawling over Harry. 

Harry runs his palms up Zayn's arms where he's planted them above Harry's shoulders, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He can't stop staring at Harry, taking in the new laughter lines around his eyes, the highlights of gold in his curls from all the time spent in the sun. He has to wet his lips; his mouth feels too dry with all the questions he wants to ask. Should probably ask. It all disappears from his mind when Harry rises up to kiss Zayn soundly, and Zayn sighs softly into it. It's wet and there's hardly time to breathe with how passionate it becomes. 

Harry's hands slide over Zayn's shoulders and down his back, mapping every dip and curve as Zayn drops down, covering Harry's body with his own. They're near touching everywhere and it's skin on skin and Zayn's body feels like it might catch fire, his blood’s burning so hot. His pulse is racing, this heady beat in his ears, and he's sure Harry can feel it as he moans at Zayn's throat, his teeth nipping over sensitive skin.

Zayn's hardly quiet either. A soft "Fuck" falls from his lips as he rolls his hips down. Their cocks rub against each other for a moment, but it's enough. Harry's already wet, Zayn can feel it when his cock brushes alongside Harry's, over the warm skin at the round of his belly. It's smooth in a way that it shouldn't be and it has these sounds bursting from Harry's mouth, lost where he's got his lips back on Zayn's and his tongue deep in Zayn's mouth.

Harry slips a hand between them, his blunt nails catching on Zayn's skin at his hip and over his stomach. He manages to capture both of their cocks, giving them both pause when Harry gets the grip just right and _yes_ that's good. Harry breathes out, pulls back from kissing Zayn as he looks into his eyes. It's that hard stare that Zayn couldn't look away from before. Doesn't think he wants to now.

"What do you want?" Harry starts, and Zayn hears the unspoken _"from me"_ that should have been at the end of it.

What does he want? He wants everything. Everything he can't voice. Everything he doesn't let himself think about. Hasn't _let_ himself think about since that night in his flat in London over a year ago.

But right now. Here in this hotel room, on this bed with Harry under him, there's only one thing Zayn can think of that doesn't involve him giving everything away.

He ducks his head down, breathes heavy against Harry's skin as Harry continues to work their cocks between them. It just makes Zayn _want_. Nothing is enough.

"Want you to fuck me, want to feel you, just—" He pauses, doesn't think he can find the right words to tell Harry what he means. What he truly needs.

Harry nods. Zayn feels it under his lips where he's got them pressed to Harry's jaw. "Yeah, yeah, I want that, too." 

He gets up and feels Harry's eyes still on him as he digs into his bag, hunts down to the very bottom where he knows there are condoms and lube. He heads back to the bed, taking in a long, shaky breath as he crawls back over Harry's waist. Harry's hands roam up and down Zayn's thighs as he dumps the condom on the bed. Zayn rips open the sachet, slicking his fingers up before resting the packet on the duvet and reaching back around him as he leans forward over Harry. He doesn't waste any time; the first touch of his fingers to his hole is tease enough. Zayn shudders as he fits one finger inside, closes his eyes as he pushes past the burn because it's been a _long_ time since he's done this. Since anyone's touched him here.

Since Harry.

"Look at you," Harry says so softly that Zayn has to open his eyes just to make sure. "You're so . . . I just—" Harry stutters before he raises up, shoulders lifting from the bed as his lips slide against Zayn's. It's a sad excuse for a kiss but Zayn moans into it anyway, even at the awkward angle it takes to keep his fingers where they are. He only stops short when he can feel another slick fingertip at his hole, one that's a little wider than his own. 

"Fuck," Zayn whimpers as Harry presses in and alongside Zayn's, and _when_ did he have a second to slick his own finger up? Zayn looks down at the bed but the little sachet is gone now, resting on Harry's stomach just north of where Harry's cock is curved up, flushed dark at the tip. A burble of precome makes a clear, sticky path down Harry's shaft and Zayn swallows hard. He's torn between how much he loves the feeling of Harry helping to open him up, stretch him out in readiness, or wanting to knock Harry away so Zayn can get his mouth on Harry's cock instead. 

It's a hard choice but when Harry curls his finger just so and no, no, Zayn wants him to stay _exactly_ where he is. Harry slides one hand up over Zayn's side, tickling up around his ribcage, over the bumps in his spine until he's got a grip on the back of Zayn's neck. He's pulling Zayn in and Zayn has no other choice than to follow. He lets Harry take over between his legs as he stretches up and over Harry's body, fits their lips together properly now. Harry tastes tart like lemon and a little bitter like the beer he must have been chasing the tequila with. He doesn't think Harry's drunk; maybe he needed a little liquid courage for what they're doing now. He should probably stop them both. Probably mention that it's a bad idea if they're not both on the same page. That one of them being under the influence is possibly one too many.

Then Harry's tongue slides against his own as he fits three fingers inside Zayn, rubs a constant pressure against Zayn's prostate, and no. No words. Not anything more than _"Fuck,"_ and _"Yes,"_ and _"Don't stop,_ " jumbled up, breathy sounds more than anything comprehensible at all.

The buzz under his skin that's been there since he saw Harry sidestage is at nearly vibrating levels now. He gets his hands on Harry's chest, tweaks one nipple then the other, and swallows the soft moans leaving Harry's mouth. He can't stop kissing Harry. Can't keep his hands from Harry's skin or leaning into Harry's touch. He's rocking against Harry's hand now, the burn from being stretched a distant memory as how good it feels takes over. 

It's not enough, though, it's not enough now that Harry's here and he knows Harry wants this. Whatever it means. He forces himself to sit up further, pushes up against Harry's chest, fingertips fitting over the fatter bird as he catches Harry's eye. Harry's fingers slide out, his hand still a firm grip on Zayn's bum as Zayn picks up the foil pack with a shaky hand. He gets the wrapper open and fits the latex over Harry's dick after pumping his hand along the shaft a few times. Gets off on seeing Harry's teeth press down hard on his bottom lip, skin turning white from the pressure. Harry's got both hands on Zayn's hips now, thumbs rubbing slow and perfect over Zayn's hip bones as Zayn fits the condom on, then uses the rest of the pack of slick, hardly a tremor visible in his hands.

"Want you," he whispers, fingers curled around the base of Harry's cock as he raises himself up and fits the blunt head between his cheeks. He shudders as it catches a few times on the rim before finally he gets in a good position and begins to lower his body. He can't speak anymore. Can't _do_ anything but concentrate on how Harry's slowly filling him up, splitting him apart. Can't look at anything but the near black of Harry's eyes, pupils so dilated they've swallowed nearly all the green. 

He takes and he takes and Harry just lays there, hands sitting on Zayn's sides as he lets Zayn take him in however he wants. However he needs. Zayn feels like his heart could beat right out of his chest, it’s thumping that fast. It's almost as if he can feel how having Harry inside him, this close, is setting right all these little pieces of him that have been just that little bit _wrong_ since Harry's been gone. He has to remind himself to breathe. Has to remind himself to take it slow, make it last.

When he's finally seated, all the air rushing from his lungs in a loud exhale, Harry groans, his grip so hard Zayn _knows_ he'll bruise. He wants it. He wants Harry to leave marks. Craves Harry's touch and wants to be closer even though there's not much space between them now. He leans in and bends his body toward Harry's as he runs his palm from the soft curve of Harry's belly up, up, up until he's carding his fingers through Harry's hair. He kisses Harry once, twice, and a third time, always a little out of Harry's reach until Harry whines and pumps his hips up and _yes_. That's what Zayn was supposed to be doing. 

Their kiss turns hungry then, full of sharp teeth and tongues as Zayn rides Harry with a fast rhythm, chasing how _good_ it truly feels. Harry's hand slides over Zayn's skin, cups one cheek and _squeezes_ before making a return path up Zayn's side, fits his hand against Zayn's jaw. He brings their mouths together again and Zayn's so lost in having Harry all around that he forgets to move, slowing to a near stop. 

"Zayn," Harry whimpers against Zayn's lips, "don't . . . please." Harry brings his legs up then, plants his feet against the mattress and starts fucking up into Zayn in earnest.

Zayn lets him take the lead, just rests his aching thighs as each thrust from Harry gets him closer and closer to the edge. Harry's murmuring Zayn's name into his ear as Zayn drops his head, tucks his face into Harry's neck, and just _breathes_. Harry's not having that, though. He gets an arm wrapped around Zayn's waist, and with more finesse than Zayn knew Harry even had he flips them over so Zayn's on his back. He wraps his legs around Harry's waist and groans. Harry keeps dicking into Zayn and it feels so much deeper than before. Like all of the Harry-less parts inside of Zayn are being filled up, tipping over with what it feels like to have Harry in his arms again. To have Harry kissing him like it's the only thing he wants to do.

Maybe it is.

Maybe there's more to this than just getting off, but Zayn can't ask now. Can't _think_ with Harry's hands everywhere on his body, holding him close, kissing him hard. There's barely a breath of air moving between them. Zayn's cock is trapped between their stomachs, precome kicking out from the slit as the sensitive head rubs against the muscles defined at Harry's belly. It's worse when Harry gets his hand in there, his fingers wrapped tight around Zayn's prick, and Zayn curses as he does so. Harry smiles, biting at Zayn's lips as he tugs Zayn off in time to each thrust.

Zayn barely has time to breath with Harry's lips firmly on his. He's never felt so close to someone as he does to Harry now. Zayn clenches down on where Harry's fucking into him slow and steady. Harry gasps into the next brush of Zayn's lips on his and Zayn brings his knees up higher, bending himself in half to feel Harry _more_. He presses his heels into the meat of Harry's bum, urging him on because he's close, he can feel it. He can see that Harry is, too, what with that little crease forming in his brow, the hitch in his breath, and how every other thrust is just that little bit more shallow as he nearly pauses before fucking back in.

There's so much he wants to say, so many words curled on his tongue as he presses it against the back of his teeth and shoves his face into the curve of Harry's neck instead. Opens his mouth and _sucks_ over the warm skin where Harry's pulse beats a fast staccato just below the surface. He doesn't stop as he hears Harry groan, feels it vibrate against his chest as Harry speeds up his thrusts and it's like a switch is thrown deep in Zayn's gut. His orgasm is already starting to build, tendrils burning through Zayn's body, every vein on fire as he gets closer and closer. 

Harry calls his name and Zayn turns, lashes fluttering for a moment as Harry gets a thumb over Zayn's slit. He rubs under the head and Zayn starts seeing stars. Harry seeks out Zayn's mouth once more, kisses him slow and sure, and that's all it takes, all Zayn needs to start coming over Harry's hand and stomach. There’s a sticky mess between them as Harry's thrusts get completely out of time. He sits back and Zayn misses his closeness already. Harry's hands curl under Zayn's knees as he leans back, tugs Zayn up his thighs as he presses frantically in and in and then stops, back arching, coming so hard Zayn can see the veins in Harry's neck in sharp relief as his head falls back. He's so beautiful and Zayn can't believe he gets to see Harry like this again. To witness Harry falling apart because of _him_. Harry slows and stops, easing out of a still gasping Zayn, flinging the condom somewhere on the floor as he collapses back down at Zayn's side.

He pulls Zayn in and Zayn twines their bodies together after rolling back for a bit, grabbing at the duvet to clean Zayn off. Zayn fits their legs together after, presses his lips to the marks he can already see darkening on Harry's chest and collarbones. He still can't catch his breath; he feels utterly boneless after all that and wants nothing more than to keep Harry close, feel Harry all around. He wants to listen to the rhythm of Harry's heart slow to normal under his ear as he rests his head on Harry's chest. He just wants to keep Harry for as long as he's allowed.

And they'll talk. Zayn knows they'll talk. Harry will want to after all of this but for now, now when it's just the two of them and Harry's holding him close, rubbing a hand over Zayn's spine, it's enough. It's enough that Harry even _wants_ him like this after all that's remained unsaid between them. He can be satisfied with having just that. He wants to stay awake, doesn't want to miss a moment of this, but his eyes are heavy and the day has been long.

He falls asleep to Harry's lips on his brow, whispering Zayn's name soft and low, and it sounds a lot more like the "I love you" that Zayn had never been able to say to anyone else. Not like how he meant it when he thought about it with Harry, said it in "friendly" terms that were much more than friendly when Zayn really thought about it. And he'd thought about it in the last year. Thought about it more than Harry could ever hope to know.

When he wakes later it's to a slither of light coming in from the backed curtains that he's nearly pulled the entire way across the floor-length windows to the side. He shifts a little and can already tell without opening his eyes that Harry is gone. It stings a little, but then he hears the toilet flush and the door open and close and it's fine. Harry's still here, and even though it means talking when Zayn pretends to wake up some more, it's better than waking up alone.

He feels Harry at his side of the bed, the tender touch of Harry's fingers at his brow before his lips meet Zayn's cheek. It turns Zayn's blood cold as Harry whispers goodbye and everything in Zayn that had finally stitched together cracks apart. He can feel every line, every splinter at the soft sounds of Harry pulling his clothes back on. His eyes sting as he hears the metallic click and whoosh of the door opening and shutting lightly.

It shatters everything Zayn had thought he'd patched up, breaks Zayn's hold of what the night before could have meant, and he lets the few tears that had built up drip down his face, licks the salty taste from his tongue as he burrows further down into the duvet he remembers Harry pulling over them both at one stage when the room got cold.

Zayn hates this. Hates the way he feels right now. Hates the way he gave in so easily, fell so fast with just having Harry close by. He opened that Harry place inside his heart and let Harry in to fill it up and now. Now he's gone and Zayn's empty again, maybe worse than before. There's not even an ache left over this time, he's just numb and cold. He wants to go home but he can't because he's signed on for another three shows, and as much as he'd love to curl into a ball and forget the world, the show must go on. 

He'll play out the rest of the festival and he'll put Harry to the back of his mind. He'll try and forget what this one night was, because he's certain now what it was for Harry: a perfect goodbye said on Harry's own terms. Harry'll probably be back home in a few hours, will tell Louis about everything that's gone on because Harry values honesty. 

Zayn groans and rolls over in bed, knowing that he'll have to do something similar himself. He has to talk to Perrie when he gets back. Has to finally be truthful with her, and with himself most of all. He can't live with this lie in his heart, this lie that his life has become purely because he thought protecting Harry was a plan worth fighting for. It wasn't. He hurt himself and Harry in the long run, and maybe Harry's got over it. Maybe Harry's successfully moved on, but it's different for Zayn. 

It'll always be Harry, even if Harry's not his anymore.


	4. PART FOUR

"But if I kiss you, will your mouth read this truth..." 

She's laughing and Zayn's forcing a smile. He hates interviews. Especially live ones. He hates repeating himself so much. It's like they don't even bother to Google who he is, never ask questions that fans don't already know the answers to. He glances over at Sarah and she gives him stern brown eyes, a look that he knows means he should play nice - and fine, he will. Only because this is the one interview she's making him do since he's got back from his Summer Down Under. Not including the month off he took flitting about the islands in the Pacific using Fiji as a somewhat home base.

He's had his "time off" and now it's back to smiles and charm and "the boy who came in third on X Factor." Like that wasn't years ago now.

He has two Brits, three VMAs, and there's talk of a Grammy nomination for the song he did for this little indie movie that won the Palme d'Or at Cannes. He's worked with Pharrell Williams and Frank Ocean and sold out his upcoming world tour in less than twenty-four hours.

But yes, let’s continue to ask about that time he buggered off during the dancing portion of boot camp. Let's ask again about his fashion choices - do they not realise he has Caroline to do most of that? 

This bird, though, she's actually quite good. Gets through the boring shit within the first ten minutes and then she's asking him about his upcoming world tour. If he's excited about the countries, especially the two dates at Madison Square Garden and the four at the O2. It's nice to talk about something he _is_ looking forward to and he lets his guard down a little more. Then it's what was it like to work with the big names that have been attached to it in recent months, his friendship with Alex Turner, and then she shows footage of the Melbourne show and he can see it. He can see the second his eyes meet Harry's and it has blood rushing to his cheeks, his stomach turning because it's _so hard_ to look at.

Not even a month getting his head together lying on a beach and doing _nothing_ but hashing out his past and future makes thinking about Harry any easier. 

She laughs and says something else but he misses it, just trying to keep his face straight. He breathes in, breathes out, and focuses on the now.

"Any other collaborations in the future?" she asks, and he shrugs and looks coyly down at his lap through his lashes, hoping to put her off.

It doesn't.

She re-crosses her legs, skirt riding high up her thigh, and Zayn groans inwardly. He hates the flirting, too. "I heard a rumour that not only did you perform with the Arctic Monkeys in Australia but you've got a few of them playing on the new album, in particular that song without a name that went viral when you performed it live. Does it have a name yet?"

He shakes his head, because it doesn't. "No, nothing really fit. Might have it come out as a B side or something. Haven't really found a place for it on this album yet." 

He doesn't mention that he can't even _think_ about that song now. It's like the fact that Harry picked up on the lyrics being for him, about him, and the way things have ended so thoroughly means Zayn doesn't need to sing it anymore. It's an argument he's had with Jamie, of all people, about taking it off the record. Jamie had finally come around, with how the live videos fans took went absolutely mental, but it's too close now. Too personal for Zayn to want recorded properly for all time.

She leans forward, puts a hand on the arm of the sofa he's sitting on, and looks at him all sincere. "Has it anything to do with your relationship with Perrie Edwards? Word was that you two were looking at buying a house before Christmas and then you’re off in the Pacific for a month while she takes some friends to Spain at the same time. What did she think of the song?"

Zayn's prepared for this. It's one of the reasons Sarah let him have his month off. It's been long enough that Perrie's fine with him talking about it, too.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the rip in his jeans, giving his trembling fingers something to do while he looks her straight in the eye with a wry smile. "Perrie loves the song. She's always been a big supporter of it and, like, she's got her thing and I've got mine but we'll always be there for each other. She's one of my best friends."

The interviewe’rs eyes light up and Zayn scoffs inwardly. "Is she the one your song's about, then? It's been well noted that there's nothing gender-specific in your lyrics, especially that particular track, but it does refer a lot to a breakup."

Zayn nods, pulls his leg up on his knee, and stretches his arm out over the back of the sofa. "It's about a lot of things, but mostly love."

"Well, given the timing, it's obviously not about your recent relationship, but—"

"It's about relationships in general," Zayn interrupts. "Like, I've been lucky enough to have two big loves in my life, both of them different but coming down to the same thing. It's about being honest with what you want and wanting to protect those you love most."

"You've been on record before as saying you don't like to talk about what you look for in a partner and such, but you mention two big loves. Care to elaborate on those a little?"

The vise in his chest that seems to be permanently set there lately squeezes a little harder on his heart. "Right. Well, like, I've never looked for anything in particular in anyone I spent time with. There's got to be something about the person you choose to let into your life, choose to share your life with, that transcends gender. Like, it could be the way she makes you laugh or the way he knows you better than anyone else."

Her eyes widen again and fuck, Sarah's probably going to kill him but it'll give her something to do. "Are you saying you've had relationships in the past that weren't just with women, Zayn?"

"Yeah, and I don't see anything wrong with that. People fall in love all the time. It's the person, not whether they have a dick or not, that I'm worried about."

The interview goes on from there and Zayn manages to drag it back to the music. It ends well, and as expected, Sarah chews him out for the first twenty minutes in the car headed to the studio. Only to follow it up before they walk in the door with how proud she is.

It doesn't matter. Even if he's finally being utterly true with who he is in public and in private. Harry's gone. 

Zayn's got nothing left to lose.

{ .. }

The invitation sits on his kitchen bench still in its envelope, unanswered for days. He knows what it is. His mother can't stop talking about it. Doesn't make it easier to think about. 

Seeing Harry again _isn’t_ easy to think about.

Not when he knows Harry came home in February with Louis in tow. Not when he knows they've been living together in London, some nicer part of Streatham for the better part of four months. 

He should reply. It's the polite thing to do.

It sits there for three more weeks while Zayn's filming for Sports Relief in Africa.

It's still there for another two when he gets home.

{ .. }

"Oh, will you look who finally figured out how to answer his phone!"

Zayn cringes at his mother's tone. It's not as if he hasn't wanted to call or hear her voice. It's just what she wants to talk _about_ that he wants to avoid. "I'm sorry, Mum, been busy with tour and being nominated for a Grammy."

She laughs. "Well, it's not like you won, Sunshine. That's not a real excuse!"

Zayn smiles and eyes the mostly blue skyline outside his window. It's June and he's home for three weeks before hitting the States for the next part of his tour. The hedge around the fence line is looking a little untidy; he'll have to call the garden guy about it later. At least it'll be a reason to get off the phone if his mum takes this conversation in the wrong direction.

"How you been keeping, Mum?" he asks instead, feeling admonished enough for now.

"Good, good. Safaa has your father and me on our toes lately. Gone and got herself a boyfriend and you know how your father is," she says with a sigh, and he does. Yasir is a bit more traditional when it comes to his daughters and dating. He was terrible with Doniya, and Waliyha hasn't ever brought anyone home. Safaa was always the brave one, even if she is the youngest.

He lets the familiar tone of his mother’s voice lull him into a sense of comfort he hasn't realised he's missed. She tells him about the girls’ school work like he hasn't received their texts and emails and he lets her go on, loves hearing how proud she is of her girls. Then it's all about his father’s business and that she's thinking about taking a counselling course because the girls’ school has a position opening up in the next school year.

She doesn't have to work. Zayn's made sure of that, sending her money now that he has so much coming in. It's not as if he needs it sitting in his bank account. His finance man shifts most of it around; Zayn's portfolio is wide and varied, and according to Sam it won't matter if the next album’s a bit of a flop. It's nice, though, being able to help out his family now that he can.

It's only when she's stopped talking and there's silence on the other end of the line that he realises she probably asked him something. He rubs a hand over his short, mostly spiky hair and apologises, says he missed what she said.

His mum sighs in only that way his mum can, conveying a lot more than words could. "I asked if you were coming up on Saturday?"

Zayn frowns, watches two birds dance around the water feature he and Perrie put in before things ended between them. "Saturday?" he asks, like he doesn't know. Hasn't had the date secretly marked in his head with a big fat red circle.

"Zayn," she starts, and he can hear how much she doesn't believe him.

"I know it's hard but they really want you there, all of them."

Zayn swallows at the lump in his throat, pulls one leg up to his chest and rests his chin on his knee. He could go; security wouldn't be a hassle. They haven't been a problem with this side of his life for a while now, content to harass him if he's out with someone, not back home. And Zayn's rarely out, not these days anyway.

"You never even replied, Anne told me. She didn't say, but she was a little upset." Which also means his mum is upset, Anne being her best friend and all. The funny thing is, it sounds like his mum is more concerned about _him_ than the fact that he never RSVP'd.

"I don't want to be any trouble. It's their day, you know," he answers softly, hating that for once he's pulling the famous card, something he never does.

"They wouldn't have invited you if they thought like that. And you have Rolo or Max around, don't you? They'd keep any unwanteds away."

"Max is on break and Rolo just got back from Europe with me. They deserve some time off, too," which is a bit of a lie. Rolo texted him this morning asking Zayn to go out or something because his husband was driving him insane with fix-it projects around the house now he was home. Zayn had really grown fond of Rolo as time went on. Preferred him on tour over nearly all the security crew that Zayn was assigned at different times.

Zayn can hear his mum sighing, can picture the way she'll be rubbing at her brow like he does himself when something is annoying him, a trait he knows he's picked up from his mum.

"Zayn, this is important, though. It's not every day your—"

"I know, Mum." Zayn cuts her off before the guilt treatment can really get started.

"Zayn."

"Mum, I just can't. I can't," he says, his tone laced with the hurt he keeps hidden from her. From everyone. From himself, when he's lucky enough to put Harry and the could-have-been behind him.

She goes quiet then and Zayn worries that he's revealed too much. Let far too much of himself out in the open.

"Sunshine," she says after a while, her voice a little timid and echoing a bit down the line. She's probably shut herself in the pantry like she does anytime she wants to make a private call. "Is this about Harry?"

He leans against the window, watches Hatchi run and jump at the birds, barking for all the world to hear. Thinks he's a bloody Labrador, not a tiny bit of a thing.

"Mum—" Zayn starts, the word more a whisper of breath than anything else. His chest is seizing up too much for anything else. Just a name and he can feel that ache pulse in the hollow where his full heart once resided, sending hurt everywhere again.

"I don't understand what happened between you. You were in each other's pockets growing up and he stuck with you when you started doing well with your music, and now you don't even talk anymore. Haven't since before he spent a year abroad, and I know you saw him when you were down there."

It's almost as if she can see the shocked arch of his brows when she continues, "Mums talk."

He nods, curling in on himself even more because if she knows that, what else do they both know? What else has his mother picked up on?

"I don't know what happened, and I hate that you never thought you could share it with your family, with me," and Zayn can hear her voice crack a bit on the last part. He closes his eyes as if he can hide from how much she's known. "And I know you've been hurting for a long time. Not even Perrie could make you smile easy like you used to. I thought it was the music, too much stress or expectations too high, but I've seen you on stage and it's not that. So it can only be one other thing and you’re my baby boy, my boy."

"Mum," Zayn breathes, his throat nearly closed with how hard he's trying to hold it all in.

She lets out this choked sound and Zayn knows she's crying. Probably sitting on that little footstool she keeps in there to reach the top shelves where she hides the chocolates from his sisters. Ridiculous really; they've always known.

"You’re our boy, and to think you might have kept all of this to yourself because you thought we wouldn't approve or—" She takes a ragged breath. "You’re my boy, I could never—" and she does start crying properly then. Her sobs echo over the line, breaking Zayn down with every sound until he's crying, too.

He's never been perfectly honest with his family about who he was. He’s always convinced himself that who he liked was his business, that they never needed to know until it mattered, and Zayn never planned on falling in love with a boy. Falling and getting his heart broken through nobody’s fault but his own.

"Don't cry, Mum, you'll start me cryin'," Zayn says, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. It's stupid that he feels a little lighter from this conversation alone. It's something he knew would have to happen one day, but he never quite imagined it going anything like this. His parents aren't homophobic and they've always told their children to follow their hearts, but . . . this is Zayn. He's their only son and he's always felt like there was an expectation, even if it wasn't voiced. To hear his mum say it's all right, that Zayn making a choice is all right, is a relief, a release of a weight he was never aware he was holding.

"I just love you so much, Sunshine. We all do." 

He breathes and smiles, because it's his _mum_ and he should have known she'd be like this. She's always been his biggest supporter, no matter what he was doing in his life. Whether it was singing into a hairbrush when he was thirteen or when he wanted to take that art class when he was nine, nothing has ever been out of the question. It's always been, "Whatever makes you happy," and this, Harry - Harry had been that for Zayn. For a long time. Even if it was over now, it was nice to hear that it would have been fine anyway.

He breathes in deep and listens to her do the same, both of them laughing a little which clears the air of seriousness between them.

"So Saturday," she says, and Zayn groans. Bloody stubborn woman she is.

"Mum, I just can't turn up there. I can't . . . he's happy. He's happy and I'm trying. That's all I can do." He feels so empty, so _so_ empty, but it's the truth. It still guts him that Harry's had his goodbye and still has this hold over Zayn. It's the reason he's been happy to be touring again. Happy to have made a final decision on album four and be moving on with his life, too.

Harry's song is a hidden track on the album. It's the only part of his music he refuses to talk about.

He can't go backward. Not now.

"I saw him this morning," she spits out, and Zayn freezes, focuses on Hatchi digging a hole that Zayn's going to have to fill in later. "He asked about you. Specifically about you."

It lifts Zayn's heart for a moment, that Harry would be thinking of him, but then he falls once more. Of course Harry asked. It's Zayn's mum; it'd be weird if he didn't.

"He didn't have anyone with him. Didn't mention he was bringing anyone to the wedding when I asked."

Zayn feels a flutter in his heart, a warmth that almost glows. He pushes it away quickly. He can't even let his mind go down that road, not now. "It's his mum's wedding. Maybe they're keeping it small."

She makes this frustrated sound. "Zayn, a wedding is where you bring your other half, but he's not. Harry's _not_."

She sounds so sure and it's making Zayn confused because one moment they're talking about the fact that he might not like just girls and the next she's, what, trying to set him up?

"It's different between us, like, he's—"

She groans. "He's not with Louis anymore. Hasn't been since before they came home. They just live together because it worked out easier for them when they got back. Louis's got himself a new boyfriend now."

It's like time freezes. Like everything stands still because this . . . this is something else entirely.

"How do you even know?"

She chuckles and he can picture her shaking her head at him. "Because I asked. It's what mothers are for."

{ .. }

He doesn't stop thinking about Harry all that day and deep into the night.

Harry's been home for months, and yeah, Zayn's been in Europe for most of that time, but Harry could have called. Texted. He could have asked Niall where Zayn lived now - because Niall would have told Harry, it's just who he is - and made an impromptu visit. He could have made any attempt to patch things up between them and Zayn would have listened. Would have wanted to try, even though they’d both hurt each other worse than anyone else ever could.

But he hadn't. And that fact alone made Zayn wish he could shut off the part of his heart permanently that would always, _always_ be Harry's.

When he falls asleep on the sofa, Hatchi curled at his feet, it's to a cool grey morning and no set answer in mind.

{ .. }

He picks up his keys a dozen or more times Saturday morning before setting them down again.

He turns his phone off and on and ignores his mother’s phone call. Ignores the text from Doniya saying she'll pick him up, that they'll all go together. Just the family, no others (even if that might piss Safaa off. She's barely a teenager, she'll get over it).

He lies on the sofa and listens to the clock tick, reruns of Friends on the TV playing muted in front of him.

He watches and he thinks about Harry arriving. Of Harry walking his mum down the aisle. Of how amazing Harry would look in a good suit or a tux and how big the smile on his face would be.

The clock ticks some more and he pictures Harry making his toast at the reception. Of the tears and dumb jokes Harry will do. He imagines first dances that he can actually have with Harry now. Proper slow dances, with no care as to who saw.

He's never danced with Harry like that.

Never will.

It doesn't matter what his mother says. It doesn't matter that Zayn would be far more honest now about their relationship than he ever was. Harry is his past and Zayn needs to remember that. Not let any tiny slivers of hope for something else crack open that place in his heart. He can't. He just can't go there again.

It's around then that he opens one of the bottles of red he bought a crate of from this great vineyard in France during the last tour. He drinks until he can't work the corkscrew to open another bottle.

{ .. }

It's his last week before he has to head off again, touring the States this time. A headline tour of his own at much bigger venues. He's playing Madison Square fucking Garden for an additional two shows to those he was already booked for. It's insane. It's crazy that he was just this little boy from Bradford and now he's smashing it in countries all over the world. He's flying his family over for the opening show. Doesn't think he'll actually be able to control his nerves in a situation like that, even if he tries.

His mum's been on the phone for days now begging him to come up for the weekend and he's finally caved. It's knowing that he's going to be away for a long while before he's able to have his favourite Chicken Korma that she makes so well that gets him in his car and headed up the M1. 

It's due to poor planning on his part that he runs out of fuel _just_ outside of Morely. He has to turn off the motorway, and fuck, the sign for Leeds is right there. Zayn ignores how it feels to be driving down this particular road. Sure, things like billboards and what's in buildings have changed, but still. It's the road he's taken so many times before, back when just the thought of who he'd reach at the end of this particular stretch of tar would have him smiling. Wanting to push the car that bit faster, risk getting a bloody ticket just to get his hands on Harry a little quicker than possibly was safe.

He's not in the best of moods when he pulls up and gets the pump into the car. He's got a hoodie on so hopefully no one will recognise him, but he keeps his head down anyway. Zayn's not looking forward to going home; his mum still isn't happy about him avoiding Anne's wedding. Safaa didn't get to bring her boyfriend along so he's not exactly in her good books either. But they're his family and he's leaving the country for three months, and even though they're flying out for the first MSG concert, it's still a long time to be apart.

The tank fills and Zayn heads inside to pay. He reaches into his back pocket when he gets close to the doors and his wallet comes out in his hand and something else also. He looks down and it's the lighter Harry got him way back in the beginning. The one he carries everywhere, even though this year he's working hard on cutting down the smoking. Sarah keeps reminding him how much it will fuck up his voice, so he's trying to appease her with smoking less and not just failing at giving up completely. Plus it's the last proper thing he has of Harry, this one constant that can remind him of so much, of the good and the bad and of all the things they had.

He bends down to pick it up but someone else’s fingertips are there. Familiar silver rings adorn one hand and that one with the cross on it that Zayn knows he shares with Gemma is on his forefinger as he holds out the lighter, a shy smile adorning his face.

"Hi."

Zayn blinks and blinks and can't say a word.

Harry.

"Zayn?" Harry says, his brow pinching in the middle, and Zayn just _blinks_ at him.

Harry. Harry is here in a fucking petrol station, of all places, and he's . . . he's _Harry_.

Harry smiles and tilts his head to the side now, looking a little worried, and oh. Speaking. Harry said hello. Harry said hello like they were old friends. Like they hadn't _not_ been talking for the better part of a year now . . . or longer, if you included the actual year where they didn't speak at all. 

Zayn doesn't even know where to start.

"Have to pay" is what he does say, and he kicks himself about it mentally as soon as the words leave his mouth.

_"Have to pay?"_ Why would he even say that? It's obvious from how he's headed inside and it just makes Harry nod. His smile slips a little, and oh. Well, that's not unusual. Zayn's always been the best at making him sad.

Fuck. This isn't how an impromptu meeting with the man who'll always hold your heart is supposed to go.

"Yeah, I gathered," Harry says, his eyes flicking down to Zayn's hand. He still hasn't taken his lighter back. "Does this even still work?"

Zayn nods and swallows hard; his mouth seems too wet to talk, his tongue a little too big behind his teeth to form the words he wants to say. Should say.

"Right, but I didn't think you were smoking anymore." Harry frowns a bit more, then his eyes open wide, pink colouring his cheeks. "Fuck - I mean, that's what I read. Not that I'm judging. Been trying to give up all my own bad habits. Haven't had proper eggs in a while now."

"You read?" Zayn asks, and the pink on the apples of Harry's cheeks deepens to a red flush that creeps down his neck. Zayn can see it colour the tips of the birds that are visible in the stretched neckline of the white henley he's wearing. Harry's hand comes up and his fingers brush through his much shorter curls; he sweeps them back from his eyes, big ringlets bouncing back after he lets them go. Zayn's fingers twitch.

"Was in the paper someone left on my seat on the bus. Didn't have time to finish it, though, before I got off." Harry's top lip scrunches up and his nose does, too. That's a tic that Zayn knows means Harry's not exactly telling the truth, but why would he lie about any of that anyway? This whole moment is strange and awkward and Zayn doesn't want it to end because - Harry - and he also wants to run forthe same reason. 

Zayn doesn't ask why he didn't just take the paper with him, but he wants to. Maybe that's all he is to Harry now. Someone he can say he knew before they were written about, before there songs were on the radio. Maybe he's literally been reduced to that horrible song that had far too much airplay years back. _”Now you're just somebody that I used to know."_ It shortens his breath, the pain that flares in his chest from even the thought of that being the reason Harry hasn't called. Hasn't been in contact at all, even though Zayn's sure that his mother would have said something to Harry at the wedding. She's a meddler. Always has been. 

"I mean, not that I believe everything in the papers. Like, I also read that you'd been shagging Matty Healy, and as pretty as he is Louis says there's nothing there and he'd know because he's got terrific gaydar." Harry blushes again, and it's that name. That mention of Louis that freezes Zayn's blood, has his face falling for an instant before it slips easily into the fake face he pulls for fans and strangers alike. He's not entirely sure what Harry should be to him anymore. 

"I should go pay," he says, his tone sounding a lot stronger than he feels on the inside. He knows his mum said Harry and Louis are broken up but they still live together as far as Zayn knows. And even if Louis does have someone else, he's still got more of Harry than Zayn ever got close to. 

It's stupid to be jealous of someone you don't know, but Zayn could never help how he felt when it came to anything to do with Harry.

Still can't.

Harry bites at his bottom lip, pulls it in under his teeth. "Yeah, yeah, you’re right - and I should probably—" He nods toward the cars behind them before lifting his hand with the lighter in it to Zayn. "Here, can't believe you still have this," he chuckles, and his thumb rubs over the word so worn down by Zayn's own fingers making the same move that it's hardly visible now. It twists something inside Zayn. Sparks a new line of hurt he thought he was done with by now.

"Keep it," he says, lifting his eyes at the last minute to find the clear green of Harry's own. "I don't need it anymore."

He doesn't wait for Harry to answer. Ignores the way Harry's shoulders fall, the way the corner of his lips turn down, his hand shaking. He mumbles something again about having to pay and walks around Harry and into the store.

_Fuck, fuck, cunt, bollocks, wanking tit, arse!_ He curses himself over and over as he joins the queue, four people long. He basically just threw the last remnants of what he had with Harry back in Harry's face, and _why_ did this have to happen now? He was doing okay. He'd suffered through a two-day hangover after the red wine incident and he's avoided talking to his mum so she won't tell him about the wedding, about Harry. He's texted Niall a few times, not caught up proper but he tells himself it's because he's been out of the country, not that he knows Niall will ask about Harry, that's the reason. 

Everything is always, _always_ about Harry, and it's stupid of Zayn to think it'll ever change. He moves up a space in the line. Looks out to where the cars are, and Harry's still there. He's standing beside the old Range Rover of Robin's that Robin taught them both to drive in. Zayn can still see the dent he and Harry made in the bonnet that they told Robin was from another car backing into them, not the fact they'd forgot to put the handbrake on and rolled into a post while giving each other handjobs in the backseat. 

Harry's just standing there, staring at his hand, and Zayn . . . he can't just do _nothing_. He can't just stand here and watch Harry leave and not do _something_. He needs to know. He needs to put it all on the line and tell Harry everything because he just might never see him again. It's been so easy to get lost in the distance between them before, and it'll be easier now with how their lives are so separated, and he knows . . . he knows he'll never be able to let Harry go.

He steps out of line quickly and heads back out the door just as Harry's finally getting into the driver’s seat. He jogs the short distance, opens the passenger door, and climbs in to the sound of a shocked squawk from Harry beside him. 

He's so close now. Harry's cologne fills the air he's breathing and Harry's right there, this warmth he's been missing for so long, and Zayn’s speaking before he even knows what he wants to say. 

"You can't have it," he mumbles, short of breath because even though he's slowed how much he smokes, he still isn't entirely fit. "You can't have it."

Harry releases his seatbelt, turns a little to face Zayn. "Can't have what?"

"My lighter, your lighter. You can't have it. It's mine." Zayn doesn't even know how this relates to what he _really_ wants to say but it's all he's got, that last tangible hold on what they were, and he can't let Harry have that, too. Especially if this goes horribly wrong.

Harry blinks with wide eyes and lifts half up out of his seat, grabs at his back pocket and pulls the silver rectangle out. "Then why did you—"

Zayn puts his hand over Harry's and it sends a shock up his arm. The way Harry trembles when he does gives him hope. "I can't let you have it. I can't let you have any more of me. I've loved that lighter as long as I've had it, carried it with me always. Even when I've fucked up and thought I was trying to do my best to protect it from the life I saw opening ahead of me, it never let me down. I let it down, though. I kept shoving it away and hoping to keep it safe, hoping I wasn't leading it on, knowing deep down I was. I kept watching its light dim and dim until I snuffed it out completely. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never looked after it properly, appreciated it like I should have. I'm sorry I never told it how much it meant to me, means to me still."

Harry stares back at him and Zayn feels sick. His stomach is turning and his chest is tight and his pulse is thundering in his ears and Harry isn't speaking at all.

"So I want it back. You can have everything else - even if you don't want it, it's yours. But I need that lighter. I just . . . I need it." 

"Excuse me, sir, you do realise you haven't paid yet?" this voice says from behind Zayn, and fuck. He hadn't done that. He waves a hand behind him and keeps staring at Harry, who's looking down at their hands and hasn't said a word.

There's a knocking at the window behind him, loud raps that shake the car. "It is a criminal offence, sir, to fill your vehicle and not pay for the fuel."

"I know, I'll just be a minute," Zayn says without turning. He can't look away. Can't look away from Harry until he's sure. Until he knows for certain that even though he was using the lighter as a metaphor, Harry understands it all. That Zayn's sorry for how he treated their relationship, that he's still in love with Harry. He's not entirely sure he conveyed all of that but it's as honest as he's ever been about who they were, what Harry means to him still.

"I don't care who you bloody might think you are, son, but you will come back in and pay now or I'll have to call the police!" 

"I said I'm coming!" Zayn shouts, turning his head just enough to the side that he can see how red and blotchy the assistant’s face is turning. The few strands he's got combed over the bald patch on his head flutter in the breeze, there's white spittle forming in the corner of his mouth, and Zayn could be in a lot of trouble here.

"Harry," Zayn says, ignoring the continued murmurings of _"Bloody famous twats, thinking they can get whatever they want for free. I won't have it!"_ going on behind him.

Harry doesn't look up. He turns their hands and slides his away, leaving the warmed metal in Zayn's palm. It feels molten hot the instant it hits Zayn's skin. His body turns cold.

"You should go pay."

Zayn's mouth opens as he breathes in, air sticking in his throat because it's not what he expected. He isn't sure _what_ he expected, but that . . . that brush-off wasn't it at all. 

"Just go."

Zayn watches through wide eyes as Harry puts his seat belt on, one hand on the wheel and then the other at the ignition. 

Okay. Okay.

He gets the door open and slides out. Shuts it with a metallic click he can barely hear over the assistant still wailing about people taking advantage, feels the air shake as Harry starts the car. By the time he's followed the assistant back inside he's heard Harry drive away and Zayn's numb. He pays in a haze and even takes a photo with Reg, the assistant who was more than happy to yell at him outside but still wants a picture for his grandson. 

By the time he gets back to his own car it's almost as if his body isn't his anymore. Like the whole thing that's just happened was an out-of-body experience. Like declaring his real feelings to Harry was something he watched, not something he took part in. He's cold, and even when he turns on the heating, starts the car, he can't feel the heat he can hear blasting from the vents. Can't feel anything at all.

He lays his head down on the steering wheel and tries to catch his breath. It's not workin,g though. It feels like his heart is breaking all over again but not just his heart; his whole body feels like it's cracking in half. All the places Harry's ever touched, kissed, had a hold of are crumbling under the weight of Harry not wanting Zayn. Of Harry rejecting him for the second time even though this time it's so much worse. This time Zayn put all his cards on the table and Harry swept them off with two words. _Just go_.

He's shaking and gripping the wheel so tight and he wishes for numbness again because this _hurts_. He should never have listened to his mum. To Niall. To the hope he always had deep down in his heart. He should have just left well enough alone because at least he _had_ hope then. He had that _maybe if things were different_ to fall back on, and now he has nothing. There's no maybe left in this equation because Harry knows it all and he still told Zayn to go. He left and now Zayn's left sitting in his bloody car at the service station having a fucking breakdown because he did something he never does. Never has done with anyone.

Especially not Harry.

He's been such a fool. He can't go to his mum’s now. She'll take one look and be able to read it on his face. He hasn't the energy to school his expression into a look that won't show just how completely shattered he truly is. 

He'll have to turn around and go home. 

Maybe he can head out to the States early. Go crash at Alex's and go to stupid parties where people know his name, and be the famous wanker he hates. Maybe fall into bed with a guy or a girl and forget for a moment how hollow he is on the inside. Let the voices that scream his lyrics and call his name fill the empty spaces for a little while. Let adoration of who they think he is be enough, even though he knows it never will be.

Make somebody else’s dreams come true, let them feel some sort of happiness when Zayn isn't sure he'll ever have that of his own.

He should do what Harry told him to. He should go. Freaking out here in the bloody line at Tescos isn't going to help at all.

Someone hits their horn behind him and yeah, he's probably holding up the line. He starts his car and with a wave of his hand to those behind him in apology, he slowly heads out to the road. A roll of thunder and a crack of lightning echo nearby, shaking the car as he waits to turn. It's so loud for a moment that he doesn't hear the car behind still honking, following him out. Perfect - it's a bloody storm. He turns the wipers on and starts to drive, the way blessedly clear of traffic, but he can hardly see, the rain’s coming down that strong. The car behind him is still making ridiculous noise; it's probably a fan, someone who noticed him and wants a photo, but fuck that, it's like cats and dogs outside he's not stopping for that. Then their lights are flashing and that right there is bordering on stupid and dangerous and _fuck_ , can't he just have a moment to mourn? 

He pulls off to the side and wonders how much trouble he can possibly get into if he gives whoever this is a piece of his mind. He can vaguely make out the dark shape of the car pulling in behind him, the lights near blinding so the wanker probably has them on high beam. Enough. Zayn's had enough of today, laying everything out there and getting nothing in return. He's had enough of being who he is to the public and it's their fault, in a way, that he fucked things up with Harry anyhow. Sarah's probably going to have a field day when it comes to light that he possibly knocked out a fan just outside of a bloody service station in the North. 

But fuck it. He has a right to just be himself sometimes and this is definitely one of those.

He gets out of the car and hears the other car's door open, too. He can't see a thing, the rain stinging as it falls hard on his face, but he can see a shape coming toward him. Someone tall, and when he blinks and raises a hand to cup over his forehead as a makeshift brim to keep the rain off he thinks he might actually stop breathing.

Harry looks like a drowned rat, curls plastered to his head, white shirt wet enough from the short walk from his own car that Zayn can make out every ink marked on his skin underneath. The birds, the stupid moth, something new curled around his ribs, around his heart. 

"I want it back," he says, flicking his head to get the curls out of his eyes, which is pointless; they're stuck to his skin.

"Want what?" Zayn asks, because it's surreal. He's standing in the rain and Harry's being vague and he left his insides back at that service station. Nothing seems real anymore.

"My lighter," Harry says, licking the water from his lips, and he's blinking hard but staring at Zayn in the same manner. 

Zayn pulls it from his pocket and holds it up. "You gave it back to me - I gave it to you, and you gave it back to me." 

Harry shakes his head. Lightning brightens up the sky for a moment before he speaks, half of it cut off with a clap of thunder overhead. "I did, but I shouldn't have. I can't. I can't give you back what's always been yours. I need that lighter as much as you do. I . . . fuck, the lighter meant you, right? You mean me and you, and you want me and you’re sorry and I'm sorry, too. I'm so sorry for what happened the last time, but you _hurt_ me so much and I wanted . . . I just wanted to make you feel a fraction of what you did to me all the time. I just - I never realised that you felt it, too. That you wanted it as much as I did, even when you pushed me away."

It was like someone sucked all the air from his lungs. All the words from his mouth are gone as he nods and Harry smiles - Harry _smiles_ at him - as he takes one step closer and another and then he's right there in Zayn's space. He's right there and he's reaching out and cupping Zayn's face, and Zayn might swear under his breath or say Harry's name but he's smiling back. He drops that stupid lighter to the ground as he cups Harry's jaw and Harry moves in closer, Zayn's back somehow finding the side of the car. 

"My lighter's always been yours," Harry says, all serious green eyes gazing right into Zayn's, and it's ridiculous. A bloody _lighter_. Zayn breathes out this laugh, his cheeks hurting from how hard he's smiling.

It's right there. All of it. Everything he's wanted with Harry, Harry's handing to him and all Zayn has to do is finally, _finally_ reach out and take it all.

"I don't want to talk about the fucking lighter anymore." 

He kisses Harry then, has to tilt his head up because Harry's tall. He'd forgotten that somewhere along the line. He kisses Harry with the "I love yous" not said, but spoken in so many words. He feels Harry melt into it, giving back as much as Zayn is as he presses Zayn harder into the door. It's like there's nothing else in the world apart from them and now and this moment in a fucking rain storm at the side of the road and it feels like everything Zayn ever hoped for. It's Harry, and Harry's his and he's never, never letting Harry go.

Well, until a truck rolls past and they have a sheet of water thrown over them, freezing their bodies in place, their eyes opening wide. 

They burst into laughter and Harry's head meets Zayn's shoulder. His breath is warm on Zayn's skin as he turns his head in and hides against Zayn's neck. Harry's his. Harry's here and he's his and Zayn is suddenly filled with a happiness he's only ever longed for but never thought he'd find and get to hold. Zayn's hands slip down and curve around Harry's waist and he holds him, just holds this boy he's loved for longer than he'd ever let Harry know. Though Harry probably does. He holds this boy and laughs along with him, and it's possibly the best feeling Zayn's ever known. It's like coming home.


	5. EPILOGUE

_Maybe i fell in love, when you woke me up_

"Sugarscape said I looked better than you on the red carpet. That's three events now where they don't even mention what you were there for, only that you brought me." Harry's laughter echoes from the kitchen and Zayn rolls his eyes as he turns the corner, yawning.

It changes into a smile, though, when he sees Harry at the stove, phone in one hand and spatula in the other. He's not wearing a shirt but he does have Zayn's favourite pair of black trousers on. The ones that are fitted perfectly at the waist and only make the lovely round peach of Harry's bum look nearly as good as when there's no clothes on him at all. It makes Zayn lick his lips as he follows the line of Harry's spine back up, broad shoulders and muscles shifting slightly as he flips the eggy bread over. Zayn could smell it from their bedroom along with the coffee Harry's put on. Zayn wonders what time he got up to do all of these things, considering he spied the ironing board out in the living room as he walked by and Harry's favourite lavender button-up hanging there, freshly pressed. 

It's not a special day of any sort. Zayn's been home for a month now, working on album six. He has plans to take the writing and recording process a little slower this year, what with Harry starting his first year as a proper solicitor - office and all - with the company he's worked for since he returned from Australia nearly four years before. He wants to keep an eye on Harry, make sure he doesn't let the cases he's handling get too much for him. He gets too involved sometimes, gets upset when he sees things he can't fix, purely because of the laws he has to stand by. No one ever said working with environmental law was going to be easy, but when he gets a win there's a smile on his face that Zayn doesn't get to see at any other time. A new one to catalogue amongst the many since they finally sorted themselves out and got it together.

"'S’pose I'm a bit boring compared to my lawyer boyfriend, aren't I?" Zayn says, stepping up behind Harry and pressing his lips to the warm skin at the nape of his neck. He breathes in the scent of the shampoo he washed Harry's hair with last night. There's lingering coconut hints of the product Harry's put in it to keep his curls from getting too fluffy in the day as he will inevitably run his fingers through it half a dozen times or more. He fits his front to Harry's and basically folds himself over him, hands grasped tight on Harry's hips, and Harry gasps. Zayn grins, knowing he's probably pushed one or more of the bruises he's left on Harry's hips from two nights back when they'd barely made it in the door before Zayn had Harry bent over on all fours and held him tight as he fucked him from behind. They'd been at Niall's meeting his new girlfriend and Niall hadn't been able to keep his hands off her most of the night; it had only egged Harry on and made him extra touchy, extra flirty all through dinner. When they'd finally left Harry had tried to blow Zayn on the drive home and it was only the exceptional brakes on Zayn's car that had stopped them rear-ending a bloody bus, of all things. 

It probably didn't help that Niall's girl had been a bit of a fan of Zayn's music and he may have returned her smiles a bit more than he should have. Hugged her goodbye when he probably could have just waved or shaken her hand.

Harry didn't like to share as much as Zayn didn't. He was just the same when they caught up with Louis now and again. 

They'd broken the bed the first time they'd all bumped into each other in the street.

Zayn could be just as jealous, it turned out.

"Will you get off me, you great lump? Or you can have the burnt ones and I'll have what's in the warmer now," Harry says, turning his head as Zayn starts pressing little kisses along Harry's neck, following the warmth of Harry's still sunkissed skin from their mini break to Spain a month ago. 

Zayn hums in reply, presses his teeth in a soft bite at the round of Harry's shoulder. "Rather eat you."

Harry laughs and elbows Zayn in the side as he turns, pushing them into the middle of the kitchen.

"You've said that before. You need new lines or someone new to try them on." He's smiling and his dimples are deep and his eyes . . . his eyes shine with love and Zayn can feel it down to the very marrow of his bones.

"Don't think so. No one could ever make eggy bread like you do. Not even my mum." He runs his hands up and down Harry's back, maps the feel of his skin beneath his fingertips like he hasn't felt it a thousand times before. 

Harry rolls his eyes and slips his arms around Zayn's neck and nips at the tip of his nose. "I'll be sure to tell Trisha that on Sunday. Don't forget we're going up there for lunch with both our parents. We could probably make time for dinner at Danny's, too. See that darling daughter of his and convince her I'm the better godfather." 

Zayn scoffs. He gets his hands on Harry's bum, wondering if he can get Harry out of these pants and back into bed without being late for work. "You can try, but we both know she loves me most."

He hears the hitch in Harry's breath, feels the line of Harry's dick thickening up as he fits his thigh between Harry's. " _Shit_ ," Harry gasps, his lips just brushing against Zayn's. "Can't do, that position's already taken."

Zayn feels lightheaded looking at Harry, _his_ Harry, as he lowers his lashes, hiding the green Zayn most loves waking up to from his sight. Harry's got a hand in Zayn's hair at the back of his neck, blunt nails scraping across Zayn's skin. The other's gripping Zayn's shoulder tightly, right where he's got the echoing lyrics from Harry's song (the unoffical title of the song that had no name for too long) tapering up around his ribs from underneath his heart. Identical to where Harry has Zayn's words written forever on his own body. 

Niall's right. They really are disgustingly in love.

And fools to have ignored it for so long.

"Oh really, you know I only keep you around for the way you wake me up."

Harry shivers as Zayn rocks up into Harry's touch, barely breathes as their lips skate over each other’s. "Well, as long as I'm good for something."

Zayn chuckles, answering just before he gives in and kisses Harry soundly. He can be late. They've both learnt that sometimes you have to just live in the now and forget the consequences. What matters is each other and nothing else. 

"Oh, I think you're good for a lot more."

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


End file.
